


someday we'll try to walk upright

by sirinial



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Angry Kissing, Angst, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Blood Magic, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Cullen gets a dog, Denial of Feelings, Drunk Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mage Rebellion, Mage-Templar War, Mages and Templars, Minor Character Death, Mostly because DAI's travel times are wildly unrealistic, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Punching, Romantic Face Punching, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Spiders, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, that sweet sweet denial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 11:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 117,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8011564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirinial/pseuds/sirinial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mireille Trevelyan was a senior enchanter before the Circles fell. Arguably, she's moved up in the world, since now she's the Herald of Andraste at the low cost of the deaths of everyone she held dear. She'd really like to argue that last point with whoever is in charge of this sort of thing. </p><p>A story about changing your worldview, acknowledging your faults and your traumas, and building something new out of the ashes of the only way of life you've ever known. And also about rivalry romances and punching each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_and when the sun comes,_  
_try hard not to hate the light_  
_someday we'll try to walk upright..._  
_crawl til dawn, on my hands and knees  
_ _god damn these vampires for what they've done to me_

-the mountain goats, damn these vampires

* * *

 

“Andraste’s Herald, a mage.”

“A healer, actually. My sources say when the Circle was disbanded she took her fellow loyal mages and set up shop in Kirkwall, healing refugees before they left for Ferelden. And I should tell you my sources were not happy to tell me this until I assured them I meant her no harm. Trevelyan has won some friends by selfless action.”

“…where in Kirkwall?”

“Right under your nose, Commander. Close to the docks, I believe. Of course, the rebel mages have been buzzing that she killed all the Templars in her Circle and fled with her flock of apostates to Kirkwall to sabotage the restoration efforts, so there are some conflicting reports.”

“Maker’s _breath,_ of course there are.”

“Her family is illustrious, but they have been awfully quiet. I get the sense that her being a mage is a shameful topic…her parents were an ill fated marriage alliance, and they seemed to each blame the other for her magical tendencies.”

“She said she’s a diplomat. Coming to the Conclave to speak for peace, not as a representative for the rebels. Is that the case?”

“There’s been a missive from the First Enchanter of Montsimmard, who certainly seems to think so. Apparently the First Enchanter knew our Herald’s mentor, and was supportive of her rise to senior enchanter four years ago.”

“And do not forget that she helped us to seal the rift. I believe we can trust her.”

“She also has the ability to open and close rifts at will…”

“Which is why I’m a bit concerned, you see.”

“We need her, Commander, so please see you keep an eye on your Templars. Silencing the Herald of Andraste would be, ah, bad for morale, I suspect.”

“We must train her, though. She’s had a rather illustrious career as a healer, and Circle mages are always taught a little offensive magic, but she’ll need to learn more. In the meantime, martial training would be useful as well.”

“We can’t train her with the rank and file. The Templars don’t trust her because she’s a mage, the soldiers won’t hit her in case because she’s the Herald, and letting them know how green she is in combat…”

Mireille Trevelyan, Circle mage turned apostate turned diplomat, former Senior Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle, so-called Herald of Andraste, had heard enough.

She hopped down lightly from the crate outside the War Room door and tugged on her ear, releasing the spell that had sharpened her hearing for the past hour. Really, if they weren’t going to invite her to these meetings, they’d probably best not speak so _loudly._ She barely even needed the spell to make out their arguments.

Of course, listening to four near-strangers pick apart her past to little pieces was not the best way to spend time.

At least the Seeker liked her.

Bootsteps on stone, and she considered ducking away to hide. But, really, what were they going to do – get mad at her? Madder than they already were, she presumed?

The door swung open and the Commander stalked past her without even looking, which was rather disappointing, because she’d really hoped he’d spot her and realize she’d heard everything he said about mages. Josephine did jump a bit as she walked past, but that just made Mireille feel bad for startling her.

Leliana gave her a tiny smirk, which was more than she’d ever gotten out of the woman before, and tilted her head in a beckoning gesture. Mireille nodded, and Cassandra said, “Oh! Herald, good morning. Ah…were you waiting to speak to one of us, perhaps?”

“Just eavesdropping,” Mireille said, falling in beside the Seeker.

“Oh.” Cassandra’s face dropped into something resembling apologetic, which looked wildly out of place on her stern features. “I apologize. I wanted to include you, but, well, sometimes our advisors get a bit…circular in their arguments. Perhaps it’s best you weren’t there.”

“I’ll say. I don’t think they trust me at all.”

“Give them time.” Cassandra sighed. “They are good people, and I trust each of them with my life. As I trust you.”

“You’re a very trusting individual, Cassandra.”

“I am not! I am very choosy about whom I trust.”

Mireille bit her lip so she wouldn’t laugh at the wounded expression on Cassandra’s face. “Okay, yes, you’re a very discerning person.”

The Seeker nodded with approval, as they stepped out of the Chantry and into the low glare of the sun. “Be well, Herald. Give them some time. They will learn to trust you.”

She tromped off into the snow, and Mireille drifted over to Leliana’s tent, where the spymaster was bent over a sheaf of papers spread across her desk. Leliana took no notice of her arrival, so she made herself comfortable leaning on a crate out of the wind and waited.

After a few minutes, Leliana turned and faced her, and there was no smirk now. “What happened when the Ostwick Circle fell?”

The question felt like a slap in the face, and Mireille tried not to snap her reply. “Don’t you already know, Mistress of Secrets?”

“I know what others say.” She gestured at her desk. “I have the report of an Ostwick mage gone to join the rebels. I have the report of an Ostwick Templar who joined under Cullen, when he was Knight-Captain. I have a dozen reports and I don’t have your version, which is why I’m asking you, Senior Enchanter Trevelyan.”

Her eyes were _piercing._ Mireille swallowed the lump in her throat and leaned back on the crate, took a deep breath, and met her gaze. “We were a quiet Circle. Not many problems. Our Templars were, by and large, good people, and our mages were mostly studious and helpful. I was a healer. I’d made senior enchanter just before the vote, in fact, and when the Circles dissolved, for a while we just…kept going like usual. We were comfortable.

“We were too close to Kirkwall, I think, is what did us in. Maybe we could have kept going.” Her voice sounded flat and loud against the walls of the tent. “I was the most senior enchanter, I was the one all the apprentices looked to…The Knight-Commander tried to invoke annulment. He came to see me in my office and Silenced me, tried to kill me. So I stabbed him with a letter opener.”

At this, Leliana made a small noise of surprise. Mireille laughed, but it came out sounding all harsh and twisty. “Right? A letter opener. All I had on my desk. I’ve never been much of a battlemage. Of course, he had a sword, so I was at a bit of a disadvantage. I’m lucky the Knight-Captain found me, or I’d still be stuck to that damn carpet.”

“And then you took your mages and left Ostwick.”

“Well, had to fight through a few other Templars trying to kill us first. But yes. I led them, because nobody else was there to take care of them.” She rubbed her staff between her palms, over the smooth familiar curves of the wood. “The loyal Templars, a few stayed to protect us and the others went to Kirkwall to join the stability efforts there. We lost a few idealists to the rebels early on, but other than that, everyone else – came to the Conclave with me. Diplomats. Peace lovers.” Her knuckles were turning white.

When she glanced up, Leliana was regarding her with what almost looked like respect, which soured her mood even more.

“There you go,” Mireille said, as sharply as she could manage. “My side. What does that tell you about me, spymaster? Does it give you some insight into my integrity?”

“It does.” The spymaster gave her a calculating look, as if she were being sized up and totaled. “Everything does, if you look hard enough. You tried to heal them, didn’t you? The Templars.”

Mireille opened her mouth, and then closed it.

“Yes, I thought as much. You’re a resourceful and decisive woman, Trevelyan. You’re also compassionate and you’re dedicated to your principles.” She finally looked away, toward the Breach, barely visible under a flap of tent. “We lost many good people at the Conclave, and I know yours were among them. For what it’s worth, I am sorry. I know what it’s like to carry that particular weight. You did your best for your people.”

And now her eyes were burning. She took a deep breath of the icy Haven air and let it out slowly, and her voice just barely shook when she said, “Thank you.”

Leliana’s hand settled on her shoulder. “Thank you. For telling me your side. I understand.”

Mireille barked a laugh. “You know, you’re the first person to say that who I believe it from.”

“With the world at the edge of destruction, I’m not sure I’ll be the last,” Leliana said wryly, patting her on the shoulder. “Get some rest, Herald. Think of nicer things, such as it’s possible. Perhaps we’ll start inviting you to War Council meetings and you can hear us all argue firsthand about your qualities.”

“What a delight.” Mireille was positive she saw a grin on the other woman’s face as she walked out of the tent.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra tapped her across the head with the flat of her sword. “Concentrate, Herald.”

Mireille growled and redoubled her grip on the staff, blocking slowly as the sword came down in an exaggerated motion. “Trying, Seeker.”

“Well, try harder, then.” The sword came down again, and she blocked, swung the staff up to tap Cassandra in the skull and found herself blocked by the shield, swung down and was blocked by the sword, and then the blade was at her throat and the Seeker said, “Forgive me, Herald, but…you’re really not very good at this.”

“Why do you think I became a healer?” Mireille asked, knocking the sword away. “I’m better at putting people together than taking them apart.”

Cassandra sheathed her sword and put her hands on her hips, considering. “Is battle magic not a mandatory area of study?”

“It is, I was just never good at it.” Mireille twirled her staff and concentrated, then flipped it around at a rock across the clearing and tried to summon a fireball and managed a tiny little puff of flame. “I could light a candle, I suppose. I’m better at small, subtle things than I am anything big and flashy.”

“You could always try hitting people with the staff.”

“I am,” Mireille said crossly. “It’s not working very well, have you noticed?”

Cassandra sighed. “That is fair. I’m not being very helpful, am I? I am not much of a teacher.”

“Well, you tried, at least.” She rubbed her eyes to clear them of sweat. “So thank you for that.”

“Of course.” The Seeker tucked her shield across her back and wiped her brow with a gloved hand. “Perhaps we could ask the Commander to teach you.”

“I don’t think our Commander likes me overmuch, Cassandra.”

“That does not make him a poor teacher.”

Mireille raised her eyebrows. “Ah, so he doesn’t like me?”

“I don’t really believe it’s relevant, to be honest.” Cassandra shrugged. “Commander Cullen was in Kirkwall during the mage rebellion, remember. If he seems cautious, it is because he has already seen the dangers magic can create.”

Mireille snorted. “That’s a very Templar thing to say, Seeker.”

“Would you disagree?”

“No, magic is dangerous, all right. It can also be helpful.” She pointed at a thick scar on the meat of her thumb. “The first time I chopped spindleweed I missed with the knife and cut myself. All the way down to the bone, severed the tendons. I would have lost the use of my hand. The senior enchanter I was with just took it and like that, I could move my fingers again.”

“But you still have the scar,” Cassandra noted.

“Lydia said I’d remember not to do it again if I had something to remind me.” Maker, the lump in her throat was back again, and she pushed on regardless. “Magic is dangerous, but no more than fire is dangerous. You can use it responsibly or you can be an arsonist. Templars are the same way, in the end.”

The Seeker nodded. “Many things depend on what kind of person one is.”

They trudged out of the wooded clearing together, out into the last dying rays of sunset. Training was beginning to die down for the evening; the yard was quieter and as the two women made their way across the yard Mireille sighed. “I hope all those Templars standing around are looking at _you,_ Seeker.”

“I don’t believe they are,” Cassandra replied. “Perhaps they’re just curious.”

“Curious as to whether I’ll turn into a demon and murder them,” Mireille said dryly.

“Perhaps they are captivated by your beauty?”

“Seeker, did you just make a _joke?”_

Cassandra blushed fiercely. “I can make jokes, too!”

Mireille laughed, but it died a little in her throat as she glanced around and saw the number of eyes fixed on her and her staff. “Maker’s breath, I haven’t had this many Templars glaring at me since my Harrowing.”

“Shall I say something to them?” Cassandra’s grip on her sword made it clear that if Mireille wasn’t going to answer quickly enough, she’d probably say something to them _anyway._

“It won’t help,” Mireille grumbled. “It’s fine, Cassandra. I’ll talk to you later.”

The Seeker nodded grimly, but her glare swept across the small crowd of soldiers as she gripped Mireille’s arm in a friendly farewell and strode off into Haven.

Using her staff to help guide her way down the slope, Mireille made her way down the riverbank, under the eyes of two dozen Templars who’d paused to watch her move across the yard. She stood at the edge of the frozen river and watched the sun go down, steadfastly ignoring their collective gaze. She was being contrarian, yes, but what was the good of being the Herald of bloody Andraste if you couldn’t be a little contrarian?

She leaned on her staff for a while, shivering in the chill wind, until the sun dropped below the mountains and the Breach was the only thing that lit the sky. The mark on her palm throbbed faintly in time with its pulses.

Mireille tucked her hands into the pockets of her leather coat and turned around to stride back up the slope. Immediately, several Templars were very busy inspecting their armor and fixing tents. She tried not to growl at them as she strode through camp.

When she passed the Commander and his eyes followed her too, though, that was what made her snap. She turned deliberately back to the former Templar, who immediately cast his gaze across his soldiers, and stalked back toward him and gritted out, “A word, Commander?”

His eyes narrowed a bit, but he nodded and followed her out of easy earshot of the recruits, at which point she turned on him like she was scolding an apprentice and snapped, “Could you perhaps _try_ to make your mistrust a little less obvious, Templar?”

He opened his mouth to reply and she cut him off. “Maker, don’t you dare say ‘Oh, I wasn’t, please forgive me, Herald,’ because I will light you on fire. I’m not that good at fire magic, but I bet I could be if you get me mad enough. What is your problem with me, Templar?” she demanded, in a tight quiet voice, because if she started yelling she’d never, ever stop. “That I’m a mage? That I’ve got a mark and some power I never damn well asked for, that I wasn’t lucky enough to be born without magic like you more worthy souls? That I’m an apostate now, which by the way, I never voted for in the first place? That when my Circle broke I saved my mages and sent my loyal Templars to you, by the way, instead of letting us all get killed at the hands of our Knight-Commander, someone we’d called friend – ” She stopped abruptly, her voice just giving out as she ran out of breath, and settled for glaring at the Commander instead, who looked like she’d just slapped him.

“First of all,” he said, and his voice was a study in controlled anger, “I’m not a Templar any longer. I left the order when I came here.”

Mireille crossed her arms, unimpressed.

“Second of all, yes, I’ve been watching you. We all have. Between your mark and this Herald of Andraste business and, yes, the fact that you’re a bloody mage, I’m not surprised you’re being watched with caution.” He glared down at her. “You’ve been here three bloody days, and nobody knows who you are. I suggest you get used to the scrutiny, Trevelyan, because I suspect it won’t end any time soon.”

“I am _not_ some apprentice waiting nervously for her Harrowing,” she shot back. “I am a _senior enchanter._ I am also not _stupid,_ because the last time a Templar gave me that look I got _impaled.”_ That made him start in surprise, and she was viciously glad to shock him. “Kindly inform your Templars of those facts, if you would. I’d like to be able to move among my own allies without getting stabbed in the back.”

“Now who’s being mistrustful?” Cullen snapped at her, stepping closer. “These Templars have come to ensure peace, not to start a war by killing the Herald of Andraste. You give them too little credit.”

“You know, being impaled tends to give you a good reason to mistrust anyone who looks at you like you’re about to slit your wrist and summon a demon,” Mireille growled, enjoying the reflexive shudder in his shoulders at _impaled._

“As if they don’t have their own reasons to distrust mages. As if I don’t!” The commander’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, and she stepped back – flinched back, really – and his cold glare flickered as he glanced down at the sword and back up at her.

He let go of the hilt, and she realized she’d stepped back in a defensive stance, staff between herself and the enemy, and with an effort she loosened her grip on the wood.

“We’re better than this,” Cullen said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Or at least, we’re supposed to be.”

“I wanted to think we were,” she muttered, and he didn’t meet her gaze. “But the war’s everywhere, isn’t it? Even on the doorstep of the fucking apocalypse.”

“Too much bad blood.” He huffed out a breath that turned misty and white immediately. “I’ll spread the news that you were a senior enchanter. Perhaps that will reassure them, that you aren’t a green apprentice or a maleficar. They’re…nervous.”

“Will it reassure you?” she said sardonically, and watched the color rise in his face. “Don’t answer that,” she added, turning. “I’m sure I already know.”

She stalked away across the snow, past watching soldiers and laborers and even a few mages. A freckle-faced Templar who couldn’t have been more than nineteen was watching her nervously. She stepped right up close to him, and he said, “Uh…Herald?”

She stuck her hands out and said, “Boo!”

The little Templar jumped and scampered back, and she strode onward, into Haven, with a nasty little smile on her face.

She dreamed about towers, and letter openers shaped like swords, and the tiny sound Knight-Commander Arden made as he died beside her on the carpet, as she bled out slowly next to him. And the tea-cakes she’d made him for his birthday, when they’d first become friends. Lemon and poppyseed, with violets on top. They'd tasted terrible but at least they'd been beautifully frosted.

They’d kissed how many times, in that same office where –

She woke up choking on a scream.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

“We should be in the Hinterlands for three weeks,” Cassandra said, placing her own metal token (and when had the Inquisition had time to make tiny metal tokens for each of their members, Mireille wondered) on the map. “I will take Varric and Solas. We will help increase stability and deal with some of the rebels before the Herald joins us. With the fighting so thick we will have to remove their nests if we wish to get to Redcliffe.”

“And neither the mages nor the Templars will speak to us yet anyway,” Josephine remarked, using her pen to push hair from her eyes. “We must accomplish something more tangible. Restoring order to the region would be a good start.”

“The delay will also give you a chance to start training in earnest, Herald.” Leliana picked up the tiny hand-shaped token and placed it on Haven. “We cannot send you out to the Hinterlands without giving you at least some ability to defend yourself. The First Enchanter may be able to help, but she won’t arrive for at least another week.”

Mireille gave the Seeker a pleading look across the table. Cassandra ignored it. “Commander, I’d like you to take over the Herald’s combat training. You’ve more experience than I, and I feel she would benefit from your instruction.”

“I suppose I can ask the captains to take over training the recruits for a short time each day,” Cullen muttered, not sounding all that pleased about it.

“They would benefit from the independence, I am sure.” Leliana tapped her fingers on the table. “Cassandra, perhaps you can pursue rumors of a Grey Warden in the Hinterlands as well. We may be able to recruit more allies to our cause.”

“I shall.” The Seeker looked around the table. “If there’s nothing else, I will see to preparations for our travel.”

“I think we are done for now,” Josephine agreed, ruffling the papers on her writing board.

Cassandra nodded and strode out of the room. Mireille followed her, letting herself feel just a little despondent. Behind her she heard Josephine murmur something to the Commander and tugged on her earlobe to sharpen her hearing a bit.

“…be adequate space, do you think?”

“I think putting the Herald anywhere near the soldiers is going to be a recipe for disaster.” Cullen’s voice was probably meant to be quiet, but he sounded like he wanted to spit out her title like a bad piece of fruit. “Our Templars are good people and they wouldn’t harm her, but they aren’t fond of her, and I would prefer they didn’t see how little combat expertise she has. They’re afraid of her, to some extent, and it breeds at least some respect.”

“We’ve the cells downstairs, but they’re a bit, well, dingy. And full of our supplies, no less.” Josephine’s pen tapped a rhythm on the board she carried. “I could send someone to clear some space in the center. No recruits will go down there, there’ll be no problem with sound, and I’ve finally found the keys to the door. We can move some surplus supplies around to prevent intrusion.”

She heard Cullen exhale something very like a snort. “I’m sure that will be fine – ”

“I hope you are not too put out,” Cassandra’s voice boomed in her ears, and she had to tug hastily on her ear to dismiss the spell before her eardrums gave out. “I will do my best to clear out the Hinterlands before your arrival.”

“It’s important,” Mireille agreed, hiding a wince as her hearing readjusted. “I appreciate it. I’ll be fine here, really, Cassandra.”

The Seeker gave her a searching look, and nodded. “I will write. I hope when you join us you’ll have learned a few tricks,” she added, with a faint smile that was basically a beaming grin from Cassandra.

Mireille winked at the larger woman. “Maybe I’ll be able to hit you this time.”

“You wish,” Cassandra said, and actually ruffled her dark curls before walking away toward the alchemist’s shack. Mireille chuckled under her breath. Who knew the Right Hand of the Divine was a big softy?

She’d been planning to grab a snack from the tavern and bring it back to her own cabin, then do some reading about the Hinterlands, maybe finish the night with one of Varric’s books. So when she opened her cabin door and found the author in question cross-legged on her bed flipping through _Hard in Hightown_ , it was a little disappointing. “I don’t suppose you’ve come to deliver me a manuscript to read before I go to bed?” she asked, dropping her bundle of food on the corner of the bed.

“Sadly, no,” Varric said, leaning back against her headboard. At least he’d taken his boots off before sitting on her bed. “I did come to see how you’re doing, since most of your time here so far has been either in prison or arguing with somebody. Or eavesdropping, I hear.”

“I will make no apology for that,” Mireille said, tugging her boots off and tossing them into the corner. “For any of those things, actually. Prison wasn’t particularly enjoyable, though.”

“It usually isn’t,” Varric agreed, producing a suspiciously fresh-looking apple from somewhere and tossing it to her. She bit into it gratefully. “Really, though. How are you doing after all this?”

She shrugged, pulling her chair over and sinking into it. “No one has stabbed me yet. Or called me a blood mage. Or tried to murder me. So it’s been worse.”

The dwarf looked a little alarmed. “Andraste’s tits, you’ve lived a _life_ for a Circle Mage, Freckles.”

“Tell me about it.” She folded her legs up under herself. “The world is ending, Varric, I think I’m muddling along relatively well.”

“Well as can be expected,” he agreed, and produced from another pocket what appeared to be a bottle of mead, tossing it to her gently.

“How many pockets do you _have?”_

“As many as I need,” the dwarf responded, winking at her. “You going to be all right without the Seeker’s bright and sunny face in your life? I think Sister Nightingale’s starting to like you, and Ruffles likes everybody, so you might survive being stuck here for a few weeks.”

“Josephine _does_ like everybody.” She uncorked the mead – it was still cold, too, fresh from either a cellar or a snowdrift – and reached behind her for a pair of flagons. “Good thing someone likes me, at least.”

“Hey, they’ll come around. Curly’s just…difficult.”

She raised her eyebrows and handed the dwarf a flagon. “I’m sorry, are we talking about the Commander here?”

“Oh, yeah. You should see the stuff he puts in his hair.” Varric grinned as she burst into giggles. “I think it’s made from blood lotus and lard.”

“That would make a terrible hair product,” Mireille said, and then hiccupped, and frowned.

Varric’s grin got even wider. “You hiccup when you laugh, don’t you?”

“Do not!” Hiccup. “I will end you,” she said, as he chuckled.

“Ah, I think I’m safe. I’m far too charming, and you’re too nice.” He had the courtesy to hide his smile in his mug as she glared at him. “See, you glare at Curly like that, he’ll be too scared to talk back.”

“I already tried that,” Mireille grumbled. “It didn’t work that well.”

“Let me guess. Mage, mage, Templar, Templar, growl, hiss, cats and dogs?” Varric spread his hands when she gave him a Look. “That’s how it always goes with you guys. Of course you can work together, but even our mighty and brave Commander was a bit of a prick before he realized how far up his ass his head was. And then he helped save Kirkwall, so it turned out okay in the end.”

“You think my head’s up my ass?” Mireille asked, keeping her voice neutral.

“We’ve all got our heads up our ass a bit.” Her expression must not have been as blank as she’d hoped, because Varric wagged a finger at her and emptied his tankard. “See, you don’t think so, but we all do. You’ll figure it out. You’re smart, and you’re certainly brave, so it probably won’t take you long at all.”

“Thanks,” she said, leaning back in the chair. “I’m very glad you came to tell me my head’s up my own ass.”

“No problem, it’s what I do.” He topped off her flagon, poured himself another glass, and tucked the cork back in the bottle. “Try not to murder anyone while I’m gone, yeah? If you’re going to blast Curly into next week, I’d really like to be there to see it, at least.”

“No promises, Fuzzy.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Are you nicknaming me? Oh, no. That’s my thing. You can’t steal my thing.”

Mireille stuck her tongue out at him, which was not conduct befitting a mature senior enchanter over thirty, but _was_ befitting a conversation with an author of Varric’s caliber. “Watch me. I’ll have nicknamed the whole damn village by the time you get back.”

The dwarf hopped off her bed and shoved feet into boots, shaking his head at her. “Hey,” she called, as he tromped toward the door. “Don’t get yourself killed, Fuzzy.”

Varric turned and winked at her again. “Same to you, Freckles.”

Her front door shut behind him, and Mireille eyed the mug of mead in her hand. Then she downed the entire thing in several large gulps and closed her eyes, let it wash over her in a tingling rush. The clank of the tankard on the table was the loudest thing she’d ever heard.

Soft green played out over the table from the mark on her palm, pulsing gently.

She scowled at it and reached for the bottle.

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Mireille woke up with a headache, and groaned.

“You’re not twenty anymore,” she grumbled to herself, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. “Dumb shit.”

Someone – probably one of Josephine’s village-child couriers – had brought in a few of the papers the ambassador and spymaster thought she ought to look at, as well as a big flagon of water. On top was a folded note, with TREVELYAN written on the front in scrawled capitals.

The interior just said: _Chantry cellar at sunset for training. Door will be unlocked._ It was signed “Commander” in the same scrawl. His handwriting was _awful,_ she mused, flipping through the other correspondence, and choosing to forget for the moment that her apprentices had complained so much about her scratchy notes that the first enchanter had actually told her to improve it or she wouldn’t be able to teach any more.

She let herself grumble under her breath until she’d tied up her mass of curls into something resembling a hairstyle and splashed some water on her face, then gave in and let herself grumble some more until her boots were on and she couldn’t put off going outside any more.

With a sigh, she opened the door and strode out into the world.

The Seeker’s absence in the training yard was glaring. Cassandra was too big a presence for her absence to go unnoticed. It didn’t seem to be emboldening the Templars; a few people watched her walk out into the frozen lake, but she didn’t hear any comments. And she was listening.

Mireille trotted across the lake, waiting until she was out of sight of the training yard to slide across the ice. There was a little tree-covered island in the center that she’d marked earlier as a nice secluded spot to practice battle magic, and it was still quite empty, full of broken logs and early-morning sunlight.

She tromped through the snow into a small clearing and filled up her lungs with cold air, and reached for the power.

It was there – always, like another limb – and she concentrated on it, feeling out her connection to the Fade. Healing was always first to her mind, but there was nothing here to heal and restore, besides some trees that wouldn’t be grateful anyway. She’d learned the elements when she was young, though. Cold was easy out here, biting and tinny, and she tasted it when she lifted her hand and a swirl of snowflakes coalesced in it.

Electricity was tough, because it was so skittish and jumpy – it didn’t want to be in a ball until she coaxed it to, reminded it that ball lightning was something it could be, and even then her heart thrummed a little in response to it when she tossed it in the air. Fire, though, that was hard. It was warmer than body heat, and her staff was attuned to cold already, so she had to remind herself of cold so sharp it felt hot and came back around.

The fire she managed to summon was not much bigger than a candle flame, but at least she could summon it. She let go of the power and the electricity smacked into a branch, which exploded in fine dust. The snow dropped to her feet and the flame sizzled out under it.

Mireille grinned. Okay, battle magic might be sort of fun.

She pushed her muscles through the slow staff dance she’d learned ten years ago, a battlemage’s basic form, moving slowly and planting her staff. The air was cold and crisp and after the third time through she shed her leather overcoat and did the moves in her shirtsleeves.

After the fifth time, she breathed in, and pushed her power through the staff, and ice flew, spattering perfectly against the boulder she’d picked as her target as she flew through the motions. She finished it with a call to the clouds and a smack of lightning cracked into the boulder, and she grinned like an idiot, whipping around and aiming her staff at a broken log, which also exploded into shrapnel as lightning arced into its heart. She ran up the slope and around, tucking her staff behind her as she did, and then brought it out and down as she leapt off the short ledge and slammed it into the ground and thought, _fire._

Fire lanced from the tip in a long line and splattered off the boulder, and she felt something crack in the staff.

Mireille stood up and frowned at the length of wood. She’d made this staff in the Free Marches with her flock, out of strong maple and iron and a citrine her favorite apprentice had given her. Hell, she’d smacked Templars in the head with it, and their heads were a lot harder than the frozen ground here. But the wood was definitely splitting in a long line down the center, and her eyes swam and burned, for some _stupid_ reason.

She sighed, wiped at her eyes, and pulled on her hair, dislodging several pins and the leather cord that held it in place. She wrapped the cord tightly around the wooden shaft. Maybe this island would have a good tree for a replacement. That would keep her busy enough not to think about it.

* * *

 

A black walnut tree high up on the cliffside gave her a long, sturdy shaft, and Mireille thanked it, because if an earnest elven apprentice tells you trees have feelings, you are polite to trees for the rest of your life, just in case.

She hiked back to Haven just as the sun was setting and almost sat down to work on the staff when she caught sight of the scrawled note on her desk. Dammit!

Panting, she arrived at the Chantry in under a minute, and found the cellar door unlocked. It latched behind her, which was only a little alarming. She rushed down the stairs and down the hall, following the torches, and then realized that her footsteps were echoing madly off the stones and made herself slow down.

When she came around the corner, the Commander was standing in the depressed center of the room, surrounded by empty shadowy cells, lit by flickering torchlight and looking incredibly ominous for a man standing in the middle of an empty room in his shirtsleeves.

“Very dramatic,” she said, stopping just before the steps down into the center. “How long have you been standing there?”

He gave her a look that she was positive she’d used on her own apprentices before when they were late for lessons. “How late are you?”

“How would you know I’m late? You can’t see the sunset from here.” An armor stand had been set up in the corner, and was already occupied by Cullen’s breastplate and that obnoxious fur coat. She stripped off her leather coat and overshirt and tossed them on top of the stand just to see if it would bother him, which it didn’t seem to.

“I know you’re late because you ran down the hall, and I can’t imagine you’re _that_ eager to see me,” he said dryly, as she rolled up her tunic sleeves. “And because I was down here a quarter hour ago. Are you ready?”

“Possibly,” she said, coming to stand on the edge of the steps. “What sort of training is this?”

Cullen folded his arms. “I thought we’d start with hand to hand. It’s all well and good to smack someone with a staff, but if you don’t have a staff, because someone’s taken it from you, you’re probably going to want to know how to throw a punch.”

“I can throw a punch,” she said.

“Can you? You’ve still got your staff in your hand, by the way.”

She didn’t particularly want to let go of it, either, but she leaned it gently against the wall where it wouldn’t get in the way.

“Good. Now, punch me.”

Mireille eyed him. He had almost a foot on her in both height and breadth, all flat muscle and hard edges, longer arms and legs, and her calculating stare was apparently making him a little uncomfortable, because she could _swear_ he was blushing. “I’m not sure this is going to be a fair fight.”

“It’s not, which is rather the point. I’m trying to see what you know already, so I know where we need to start – ”

She punched him in the stomach. It was a little like punching a wall, but he actually stumbled backward a little before his hand came around right at her face and she ducked out of pure reflex and felt it _whiff_ right over her head. She kicked at his shin, but it didn’t seem to be very effective, and it set her off balance, because the next thing she knew he’d shoved her by the shoulder to turn her and then she was – not on the ground anymore, because he’d picked her up in a bear hug and his arms were like vices.

“The disadvantage of being small is you’re easy to catch,” Cullen said as she struggled and kicked, and then he made a _pfuht_ noise. “Maker’s breath, you have a _lot_ of hair.”

“Thank you,” Mireille growled, and slammed her head back into his face.

 _That_ made him drop her and she skipped backward immediately, but not before his foot lashed out – faster than she would have thought he could move, with all that muscle – and caught her a glancing blow in the ribs. It pushed her back onto the steps and she leapt backwards up them to get out of the way of a punch, darted around the pillar – yes, she _was_ faster than he was, just less trained – and she launched herself off the top step and got her arm around his neck and didn’t even try to hold on with her legs, hauling him down and off balance. She was rewarded with a gurgle as the big ex-templar tried to get her arm off his throat and then suddenly he regained his balance and she was _flying_ over his shoulder, but he still had her arm in his grip, so her movement was cut short and she couldn’t figure out how the blazes she was going to get her arm back, and with no other options as she landed hard on her back and her head banged against his shin she reached up with her free hand and drove her elbow into the back of his knee.

That surprised him, probably because it was incredibly stupid and basically collapsed him on top of her, and she had to scramble to roll out of the way and not get crushed, shoving against his back with her leg to push herself away. And then he was back on his feet and caught her by the hair as she tried to keep scrambling, and then she was flying and her back _slammed_ against the pillar so hard she lost her breath, hands pinned to the stonework, and his face two inches from hers was a cold hard mask covered in blood from his nose and she heard herself growl like a trapped animal, unable to get a leg up to shove him away, panting into the narrow space between them. Very narrow.

She was too angry to think about that, though. Much too angry to think about how he’d used his superior mass to pin her against the pillar with his broad chest, yes, definitely not something she was going to think about right now. Because she was _angry._

Cullen let her go abruptly, wiping the blood off his face. “Maker’s breath. Did you really have to break my nose?”

“You did ask me to fight you,” Mireille snapped. “Besides, it’s not broken.”

He rubbed his nose and winced, but made no comment on it. “Anyway. Dodging is good, it’ll keep you out of trouble, but it’s also tiring. You won’t be able to keep it up if you have to get right out of the way every time. Better to block and use the momentum to power your attack. You’ll also want to get the hair out of the way, it’s a good handle for someone to catch you by.”

She rubbed at her ribs, swallowing the pain, and nodded. “Your nose is still bleeding.”

“Really? Damn.” He pinched the bridge again.

“It’s not broken. Let me see.” She took his chin – when had he last shaved? – and pulled him firmly down to her level, examining the bone and cartilage with her left hand and carefully ignoring the faint green light flickering on his lips as well as the look of alarm in his eyes. It was just bruised, a blood vessel broken, and she tapped a little harder than she needed to on the bridge of his nose and sent a little power into it, just enough to fix the bleeding and keep it from bruising across his face. “There, give it a moment and it’ll stop.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Don’t sound surprised, that’s what I do.” She wiped his blood on her breeches and began to braid her hair, working quickly and sloppily across the top of her head.

“I’m not – ” He gave her an exasperated look. “I am _trying_ to be nice to you, Trevelyan.”

“Why?” she asked. “Because I’m the Herald? Because I’m a mage, and you’ve got to set an example?”

He folded his arms. “Yes, and yes, and also because we have to work together and it’s a bit difficult with you glaring daggers at me under your breath all the time.”

Mireille looked up and quirked an eyebrow and he growled, “You _know_ what I meant. Maker’s _breath,_ woman, do you ever stop being frustrating for one second?”

She stuck the pins into her hair, tucking the braid flat against her head. “No. Frankly, I’m amazed I made senior enchanter.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised you made apprentice.”

“Well, they could have just murdered me right then,” she said brightly, patting her braid down and stepping back into the center of the room. “I suppose that would have solved the problem, wouldn’t it?”

He gave her a look that suggested that probably wasn’t funny and stepped in front of her. “Please don’t break my nose this time.”

“I didn’t _break_ it,” she snapped, and then blinked, because his fist was _in her face._

“Pay attention,” Cullen said, pulling his hands back. “Keep your guard up.”

She raised her fists, and this time saw the punch coming and sidestepped and swung at his face, which he blocked hard and then his knee came up into her stomach and _oh_ she was going to feel _that_ tomorrow and she staggered back bent over, and then as he closed on her she darted up around the pillar, backing away.

Backing up. He paused, panting, and said, “You can’t just back up forever, that is not the point of the exercise.”

“You’re not in a good spot,” she said, skirting across the center of the room, and he followed her, balancing on the balls of his feet, she noticed.

“What do you consider _a good spot_?” He was following her awfully cautiously, despite the mockery in his voice.

“I’ll let you know.” She glanced behind her to be sure of her footing on the steps and _then_ he lunged for her, leading with the fist, and she’d expected that and dropped to the ground and out of the way, letting him trip himself on the low stairs, but he managed to catch himself and stuck out a leg and her stupid feet got all tangled in it and she went down hard on her shoulder. While she was recovering he hauled her up with almost no effort by her tunic, and she kicked him in the chest but it just swung her away from him, so she kicked him a few times in the stomach.

“Like kicking a bloody wall,” she growled, and he dropped her, clearly thinking she was done, so of course she twisted and kicked him in the kidney, but there was nothing behind it and he turned and she ducked too late and his fist caught her across the cheekbone and sent her spiraling into the pillar, dazed, tasting blood.

She spat onto the ground and lifted herself up again, fists up, and Cullen said, “You know, we are not actually fighting to the death here.”

“I know.” She circled around him.

“I’m getting the sense that perhaps you have some issues you’re enjoying working out by punching me,” he said, watching her carefully.

“Possibly.”

“Have you considered there are other options? Strong drink, for instance.”

She lashed out experimentally, and was blocked with annoyingly effortless ease.

“Or knit. I hear knitting is quite nice, in fact. You know, Leliana knits. With chainmail, admittedly, but I believe it still counts.”

“Wait, she _knits_ with chainmail?”

“All right, I made that up because I thought it’d distract you,” Cullen admitted, aiming a kick at her side that made her skip back to avoid the foot. “It doesn’t appear to have worked.”

Mireille narrowed her eyes and shook the sweat out of them, circling. Did he maybe favor the right? Maybe? Was that a thing in fighting?

“Are you attempting to defeat me by glaring particularly hard?” he asked, and then she flew at him with a punch in the ribs, and when he backed away from her fist she tried to follow it with an uppercut only to be met with a fist in her chest just under the ribs and a hand on her face shoving her down – which she attempted to bite – which made him pull back his hand with an exclamation and then as her back hit the floor she rolled her leg up and kicked out and _missed, fucking dammit_ and then there was a fist on her bicep and a knee on her chest and Cullen said, “Will you please sit still for ten seconds and recover?”

She glared up at him, panting against the pressure on her ribs.

“Sit.” He glared right back down at her, and pushed down on her knee when she tried to get up. “I’m beginning to think you have a problem with me, Trevelyan.”

“Nooooo,” she said sarcastically.

“Well, watching you try to beat my head in is a little pathetic, so let’s have it out, then.”

She struggled, but he was not a small man, and she might not be small either but she wasn’t exactly in shape.

“Herald, just sit still for _one minute.”_

“I thought you were supposed to be training me,” she said, finally going limp but only because it was very obvious she wasn’t going to be able to shift his weight at all.

“Well, I was, but I don’t think you’ve grasped that the intent is to gauge your knowledge, not to beat each other senseless and have our colleagues questioning what on earth we’re doing down here.” Cullen adjusted his palm on her bicep, which made her grit her teeth. “So we’re going to sit here until you have grasped that.”

“I’m not a recruit,” she grumbled.

“I’m aware of that. A recruit would have listened to me by now.” He gave her a stern look and pushed her knee back down as she tried to explore where the hell his kidney was so she could knock him off her. “What is the problem?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s true, but since you’re trying your best to beat me to a pulp, I think it’s quickly becoming my business.” He leaned, meaningfully, on the knee on her chest.

She closed her eyes. If her apprentices could see her now…well, they’d probably still listen to her, but they’d also probably make fun of her for _ages._

Fuck, they were all dead in the Temple, weren’t they? That wasn’t going to help her mood at all.

“We’re supposed to be better than this,” he said, releasing the pressure on her chest. She snapped her eyes open, watched him settle in to sit on the floor next to her. “Mages and Templars and all this bad business. At least, I should be better than this.”

She sat up and groaned. “I should be, too. I went to the Conclave for a _reason,_ I…” Mireille folded her knees up and looked away, into the dark flickering corners of the room. “There were Templars I called friends for a long, long time before the rebellion. Templars I called – Templars I was close to, and then the rebellion happened so close, and everything went to shit.”

“I remember.” His voice was flat and heavy with the weight.

“Hard to be trusting when the people you l – you cared about try to kill you.” She rubbed at her stomach, almost without thinking.

“Did you really get impaled?” Cullen asked, after a few moments.

Right, she’d just blurted that right out, hadn’t she? “It wasn’t a pleasant experience.”

“I can’t imagine so. I don’t believe I’d ever eat anything off a stick again.”

She turned her head over on her knees and found him watching her carefully. “First Cassandra making jokes, and now you? World really is ending.”

He smiled at her, the scar on his lip tugging it crookedly upward. “That was almost a civil conversation, Herald.”

“Don’t get excited,” she said, glaring at him. “I still don’t like you.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m particularly fond of you, either, but as long as you’re not trying to kill me over the War Table I think we’ll manage.” He stood up, wincing, and offered her a hand.

Mireille hesitated, and just as he opened his mouth to say something exasperated she took it and let him pull her up to her feet.

It did occur to her, just briefly, that this was the kind of thing that would make Varric remark about how far up her ass her head was currently stuck, and she groaned internally. Of course he had to be _right_ as well as obnoxious

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

“What on earth have you been up to, darling? You look like something the cat dragged in.”

Mireille rubbed at her aching cheekbone and said, “Just a week of combat training, First Enchanter. It’s good to see you again.”

Vivienne lifted her chin in her graceful brown fingers and tsk’d a few times before shaking her head. “This war will make brutes of all of us in the end, I suspect.”

“I’m hoping we can end it sometime soon,” Mireille said, leaning on her staff to help support herself. The Commander had decided she needed to know how to fall if she was going to be so dodgy, so of course she now had a bruise the size of Kirkwall on her thigh. “I’m tired of the chaos. And I was _so_ close to a better way to mend broken bones, too.”

“We’ll need the help of the mages to do it.” Vivienne pulled out one of the desk chairs for Mireille and seated herself in the other like a cat choosing a favorite cushion. “Have you made progress on that, my dear?”

“The Seeker is in the Hinterlands now, working on clearing the path for us to get to Redcliffe. I still don’t know how the Grand Enchanter even got to Val Royeaux,” Mireille said with a scowl. “The fighting is so thick down there, mages and templars going at each others’ throats.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t bring you,” Vivienne said innocently.

“You know I’ve never been much of a battlemage.”

“Yes, Lydia always said your talent lay firmly in healing.” The First Enchanter gave her a fond smile that may actually have been genuine. “How is she, by the way? I’ve lost touch with her in all the chaos.”

Oh. Mireille swallowed.

Vivienne’s pleasant mask softened, just a little, and very quietly she said, “I see. Was it quick?”

“Yes,” she said, just as quietly, her voice small and faint in her mouth. “She left for Kirkwall to talk to the reasonable Templars there. We found her two days later, missing the two apprentices she’d taken with her. She fought back.”

“That sounds like Lydia.” The First Enchanter gave her a sad smile and wrapped her hands around Mireille’s. “She was a good woman.”

“She was,” Mireille agreed, squeezing the other woman’s fingers.

“We have to make peace.” The mask was back in place, and Vivienne sat forward, all polite interest, just a faint brightness left in her dark eyes. “We _must._ The Grand Enchanter has endangered us all with this foolishness.”

“Oh, I know. We’re going to have a very nice long chat about how stupid she’s been,” Mireille said with some heat, because being angry was better than being sad, and Vivienne nodded in approval. “I have some deaths to put on her shoulders.”

“Sadly, it will make it difficult to work with the Templars. My understanding, however, is that the Lord Seeker would not be happy to work with you regardless.”

“Nor I him,” she said, her upper lip curling into a snarl at the thought. “Neither group is my idea of a good time, but at least the Grand Enchanter knows who I am and she might listen to me with a small army behind me. I’m surprised the Templars didn’t try to murder me right in the main square.”

Vivienne raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Such vitriol, my dear. I thought you supported the Circles?”

Mireille sighed. “I do, I loved the Circle. Just not the crazy rogue Templars. I get the distinct feeling that the only reason Lambert didn’t try to crush me like a bug is that I wasn’t annoying enough.”

“It’s a bit strange, isn’t it? He’s never struck me as an extremist.”

“People change,” Mireille said darkly.

The First Enchanter regarded her for a long moment, and Mireille briefly regretted that she’d managed to surround herself with some damnably perceptive people. She used her staff to haul herself up to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, First Enchanter, I’ve got to see to a few things. No rest for the wicked and all.”

“Of course,” Vivienne said smoothly, standing as well. “And please do let me know if you’d like to work on battle magic. Although perhaps you might repair the staff first.”

Mireille lifted the cracked shaft in her hand and nodded. “I’ll let you know once I’ve finished the replacement. Good day, Vivienne.”

She padded off down the Chantry hall to the War Room and opened the heavy door, and finally when it shut behind her she let out the breath she’d been holding.

The small room was empty, the map of Thedas still spread across it with tiny tokens scattered around the edges. Mireille stared at it for a while without really seeing it, rolling the staff between her palms over and over, across the crack in the wood. There was probably a metaphor in that somewhere, something about a cracked staff torn like the sky or something. Varric would probably have a field day with it.

She sat down on the chair in the corner and glared at the iron-bound writ of the Divine holding down one edge of the map.

She’d met the Divine briefly when she made Senior Enchanter – an old pale woman with kind eyes and a warm voice welcoming her to the position. And a silly hat, but she’d kept that to herself. She’d been, well, Divine – beyond reproach, beyond personhood.

Mireille had an annoying suspicion that she was going to be the same, and it rankled.

The Divine must have been a _person._ A woman, with feelings and hypocritical opinions and expressions that weren’t a beatific smile. She must have taken a shit sometimes, although she never would have dared to think that if she were still a devout twelve-year-old, she thought with a half smile. Void, maybe Justinia’d had her head stuck up her ass, too.

And here she was, just Mireille Trevelyan, with people calling her Herald of Andraste and alternating between worshipping her and calling her a fake and a liar and pretender to a divinity she’d never claimed in the first damn place…

Maker, she was just a person. She was short and not particularly strong and her hair was utterly ridiculous. She was a mage, and not even an impressive storm mage or something worthy of admiration, just a healer out of her depth in battered leathers with a scrape on her cheek and a beautiful collection of bruises under her tunic.

It had been a long, long time since she’d sat down and prayed, and she recalled last time had been a little more formal than saying, “Maker, why would you do this to me?”

She kicked the table, gently, and it didn’t even shudder under her boot. “I didn’t ask for this, you know, so if you picked me for some reason I’d really love to know why.”

The sky didn’t answer. Of course, it was somewhere beyond the ceiling, so perhaps it just couldn’t hear her. Or it wasn’t listening to begin with.

“They say you have a plan for everything,” she mumbled, sinking lower into the chair and propping her boots on the edge of the table. “I’d really love to know why that plan included killing all my students. And Lydia. And Arden, but I guess that was my fault. Maybe it was your plan, I don’t know.”

She glared at the writ again, for all the good it did. The eye on the cover stared back mutely. “If this is some bullshit about humility being good for the soul and all that, you can count me out,” she accused it. “I’d love to help and all, but frankly, I’m too old and crotchety for all this. You would have been better off with Ellana, she was so innocent and sweet. Or Sophie, she really believed in you, you know? You’d better be taking care of her,” she added sternly, cradling her staff in her hands, rubbing her thumb over the rough citrine set into the top. “And Max. I know he was a little shit, but he was a good kid. A little scatterbrained, that’s all.”

A teardrop hit the leather of her coat and rolled down. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, snuffling, and pulled on her ear to listen in case someone was walking down the hall, because if the Inquisition’s leaders saw her curled up in a chair crying she’d never be able to forgive herself.

No one was coming, though, so she wrapped her arms around her knees and let herself sob. Just a little.

Maybe Justinia’d done this exact thing before, when things got too much for her.

She’d never know now.

Footsteps on the Chantry floor and she hurriedly scrubbed her face and threw a little cold magic through the staff, enough to cool her burning cheeks and make her eyes feel less puffy. It creaked warningly at her and she rolled the wood between her palms in apology and took a deep breath.

Luckily, Josephine was the one who opened the door, and all she said was, “Herald! You’re certainly early today. Are you actually eager to discuss the supply lines?”

“Supply lines are my favorite thing in the world,” Mireille said brightly, and Josephine muffled a laugh in her hand as she came around the table. “Let’s get started, shall we?” 

 

* * *

 

Part of her knew she was drifting, going through motions that were just familiar enough to become automatic.

She’d been working with Adan on a burn ointment and gotten her fingers under the knife, which was an apprentice level mistake, and he’d tsk’d at her and sealed the cut with some kind of glue he’d been wanting to try out. She’d also bumped her hip three times now on the desk in her cabin and there was a nasty purple bruise forming already And stubbed her toe on the damn thing, too. _And_ managed to shave some skin off the side of her finger while carving down the walnut stave, which she hadn’t noticed until the wood was slick with blood.

So she wasn’t particularly surprised when the Commander rapped across her knuckles with his stick and said, “Are you awake in there?”

She stepped back and nodded, trying to focus her eyes on the stave in his hands. The walnut shaft was too heavy and it was throwing her off; she’d have to shave it down some more.

Thwak, thwak, thwak, _thonk_ and his staff hit her in the head just hard enough to make her blink. He pulled back frowning. “I think I liked it better when you were trying your damnedest to knock my head in. Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Mireille said, redoubling her grip. Her palms were sweaty and it was making the smooth wood hard to hold.

Cullen leaned on his staff, looking at her, for so long that she finally snapped, “What?”

“So you are awake in there!”

“Yes,” she said crossly, wiping her palms on her breeches. The glue Adan had sealed her cut with was itching and pulling at the base of her nail, and she wondered if it was waterproof.

Cullen stepped forward and she raised the staff too late and the wood cracked across her shoulder, making her stagger. “Are you sure? I hate to inform you that you don’t get better at fighting by just letting me hit you with a stick over and over.”

 _“Yes.”_ She shook herself and glared at him.

His eyes narrowed, picked up that little suspicious squint that she’d seen over and over again, and _that_ of all things woke her up. She swung at him hard enough that the clatter of sticks echoed off the cellar walls. “Really? Is _that_ what you’re thinking, that I’m _possessed?_ A mage can’t have an off day, hm?”

He swept for her legs with the staff and she jumped backward. “It’s a reasonable concern, _Herald,_ with a link to the Fade in the palm of your hand.”

She snapped the staff forward and managed to catch him on the meat of his arm, then spun it and slammed the heavy end into his leg, making him stumble and curse. But he swept her staff away from his face as it came in and the other end slapped into her ribs and pushed her away, and she had to dance backward. “Do you really think I’m that poor of a mage? Do you _really_ think I don’t know that I’ve got a bloody mark in my hand, that I haven’t taken precautions?”

“I realize this might come as a surprise, but I don’t know you all that well.” His staff cracked against hers one-two-three times and she aimed for his ribs and hit his elbow instead, and he shook it out, wincing. “Even a mage grown can lose their head, and their body with it, if you recall the Kirkwall Chantry.”

“Do you know how many mages I saw through the Harrowing?” she demanded, panting. “How many under me passed that test?”

“Do you know how many for whom I stood waiting to see if they’d failed?” he shot back, and with an overhand swing brought it down on her half-raised staff. The wood crashed into her collarbone and numbed the whole shoulder. “We’ve got all the same bloody stories, Enchanter, so you’ll have to do one better than that.”

Mireille jabbed forward fast and hard in a straight thrust right into his solar plexus, which made the big man double over. “I don’t owe you that,” she snarled, bringing the staff down across his shoulder, but he’d recovered _fast_ and he met her staff with his and shoved her back across the room.

“Then kindly don’t look at me like I’m to answer for everything a Templar’s ever done to you personally,” he snapped, advancing on her, and she skipped backward and blocked his staff and backed up the stairs and around and around, putting the armor stand between them. “And _stop moving_ so much, it’ll tire you out. Covering ground is only good if you’ve got something to lead them onto, or if you’ve got more stamina than me, which you do not.”

She gritted her teeth and feinted left, but he’d expected that – and was she _really_ that predictable? – her strike bounced off his staff, and then it pressed forward fast and she ducked and narrowly avoided being pinned to the pillar, left some skin on the rough stone, and part of her whispered that _this_ was the most alive she’d felt all week. “And you’re not asking me to answer for everything a mage ever did to you, Templar?”

“I am _not_ a Templar,” Cullen growled, and she didn’t swerve fast enough and the staff slapped into her leg, making her stagger.

“You think you’ve left the Order, but it’s still right there in your head.” She skipped forward under his arm and got a solid hit in just under his armpit, and then he twisted his staff around and interlocked it with hers and _pulled_ and the wood clattered across the room and she sprang back as the staff came for her legs, nothing to block with.

“And you’re still a bloody Circle mage,” he snapped, and drove her back across the room until she had to leap up the steps to get away from his staff and his greater reach. “You think you know everything there is to know about the world and everyone in it.”

She ducked around the pillar and sprinted across the room, dove for the staff on the floor, and snatched it up in time to turn and block the incoming strike, and he struck again and continued, “You think you’ve lived through worse, that you’ve passed your only test – ” She blocked as he struck again, and the impact jarred her entire torso and forced her downward. “And you’ll never be tempted again, unless it’s _really important,_ like a spirit of Justice, or a lyrium bloody sword – ”

Mireille brought the staff up and jabbed it into his side as hard as she could manage and as she did, the other staff slammed lengthwise across her chest and bore her down to the ground so hard she lost her breath and her fingers slipped off the wood and let it clatter on the floor.

“No one’s immune to temptation,” Cullen said above her, breathless and panting and angry, and she was suddenly _very aware_ of his knee pressed against her hip and the torch-gold gleam of sweat along his biceps and the state of disarray his tawny hair was in, all messy curls and yellow light. He smelled like sweat and metal polish and musty fur and cedar, and _well that was enough of that, thank you._

“I see,” Mireille said, because the silence had gone on _too long._

He grimaced and tossed the staff to the side, gripped her forearm and pulled her to her feet. “I’m sorry. I was _trying_ to get you invested in training and ah, perhaps I…”

“Got a little too invested yourself?” she said dryly, and he glanced away. “Bad blood. I know.”

“It’s difficult to escape,” he said, rubbing his side.

“Especially when it keeps getting thrown in your face.” She scooped up the staves and leaned them against the wall out of the way of wandering feet.

When she turned back, Cullen was looking at her, and immediately turned away before she could register more than eyebrows knitted together and deep weariness under them. He was definitely favoring the side she’d jabbed him in, and she forced herself to not feel too bad, because he’d been deliberately taunting her, and no, that wasn’t working and she still felt pretty bad about it. She’d been deliberately taunting him, too.

She stood frozen debating whether he’d be fine for a solid twenty seconds, and finally snorted in disgust and strode over. “All right, let me take a look.”

“I’m quite all right,” he protested, as she turned him around to face the light. “Really. Mmfmf,” he added, as she covered his mouth with one hand and prodded him in the side with the other, not gently. “Mpphrrrghhh.”

She’d hit him _really hard,_ but he was fine, just bruised. All over. She closed her eyes so she could see better. Yes, lots of bruising, but nothing broken and no organs bleeding. There was a splinter in his palm from the wood, too, and before she actually registered she was doing it she’d taken his hand and plucked it out in a firm smooth motion. Nothing else required immediate attention, so she pressed her hand against the bruise on his side and ignored his hiss of pain and sent a light pulse through him, just enough to tell the broken blood vessels to stop being broken already and go back to what they were used to doing.

“That’s very strange,” Cullen said, and she opened her eyes and met his. There was something carefully wooden about his face, as if he were trying to hold a neutral expression in place on top of something else. “Although perhaps I’ve just never paid attention during a visit to a healer.”

“I can’t imagine you were conscious most of the time, if you pick fights like this a lot.”

“That’s….I can’t say I do.”

Oh Maker her hand was _still_ on his side, just above his hip, and she drew it back with more speed than was perhaps warranted. She folded her arms instead, which hurt. As did the rest of her. “Are you finished attempting to smear me into the floor for the night, Commander, or shall I prepare for the next assault?”

He raised an eyebrow and retreated to the table Josephine had set up in the corner, wrapping a ratty towel around his neck. “Did you think we were done, Herald? A real battle might go on for hours, and you need to know how your body reacts to the fatigue and at what point you’ll need to cut and run. You may be able to refresh yourself with magic or potions, but eventually you’ll run low.”

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” she said, wiping the sweat from her eyes.

Mireille let her fingers unravel and retie her mussed braid, breathing slowly, letting a faint pulse of magic wash over her and lighten the aches and pains just a little. She’d bruise awfully tomorrow, that was for sure, and there was a lovely skinned spot on her elbow that burned when she so much as looked at it, so she tapped on it a few times to encourage it to scab a little faster. Healing naturally might be best for the body, but there was no reason not to hurry it along a little.

She tucked the pins into her hair again, crossing them over each other. Cullen was wiping the sweat off his face, and she glanced away hurriedly, because if she looked at the sharp shadows the torchlight picked out across his arms and the planes of his cheek she was probably going to throw up or something. Yes, that feeling was _definitely_ nausea, that little twist right up in her gut. Most definitely nothing else whatsoever.

When she glanced up again, the commander had picked up the staves and handed her one. She took it with a sigh and drew her right foot back to the fighting stance, settling in with her knees bent.

“I’d really prefer not to have to goad you into fighting this round,” he said, rolling his shoulders and gripping the staff. “If we kill each other in the cellar I suspect Josephine will be _very_ put out at the mess.”

“We’ve apparently established that if I try, you’ll just sit on me until I quit struggling.”

Was he _blushing?_ Hard to tell, in this lighting. “It seems to be working, doesn’t it?”

“Until I figure out how to get you off, yes,” Mireille said without thinking, and _immediately_ bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood, because _Andraste’s tits did she really just say that._

Luckily he’d taken the moment she spoke to strike at her, and she barely got the staff up to block in time, making her muscles scream. Then realization dawned on his face and to cover it she swung wildly at his head and he ducked out of the way and then the fight was back on –

 

* * *

 

 When Mireille finally limped back to her cabin, she thumbed through the volumes on her desk until she found _Tales of the Champion,_ because of course Varric had made sure she had his entire bibliography. Except the romances, for some reason. She’d have to request those. For completion’s sake.

She settled herself into bed, groaned, and managed to expend the effort to flip through the pages.

Of course, Kirkwall had been near enough to Ostwick. She knew the story well enough, or at least she’d thought she knew it.The Knight-Commander had gone insane, corrupted or something, rumors had varied so much on that particular point. A Knight-Captain had set up after her death and tried to keep the place running smoothly, and largely succeeding, although he’d missed a few things.

Frankly, she hadn’t believed it was the same man. She’d seen the Knight-Captain a few times, all shiny and silver, and sneered at his inability to provide for the refugees leaving town, and filled a niche caring for them. With all her apprentices – she stopped that thought in the middle and refocused her eyes on the pages.

She hadn’t known the Templars had stood against their commander in the end, just that she’d been killed by the Champion, somehow. But there in the neat scribe’s hand was _Knight-Captain Cullen,_ and Varric had written oh so eloquently about the noble Templar who cut through the lines of his comrades to defend the mages at last, to stand before his former commander with the Champion and watch her die, consumed by the corrupt sword in her hand and her own damn hubris.

Maker’s breath, no wonder he was such a pain in the ass.

The book drooped from her fingers and she didn’t quite care enough to pick it back up. In the half-dream haze she thanked the Maker earnestly that no one had been writing it down when she’d gathered the loyal mages from her Circle, because it would not have been nearly so heroic a story.

Stabbing him with a letter opener, for goodness’ sake, she thought, drifting into sleep.  

 

* * *

 

She dreamed about blood-soaked carpets and warm arms like a cage around her, like iron bars, and torchlight, and a sword hanging by a thread above her, spinning in a faint breeze.

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

The Herald of Andraste rode to the Hinterlands with a small supply train and her new staff strapped to her back, the blade at the top gleaming in the sun, the black wood warm against her elbow. The citrine glowed like an ember nestled in the gnarled head. Soldiers kept glancing at her, but there was no suspicious Templar gaze here, just…respect, admiration?

It was strange, but on the whole, a lot better than anxious suspicion, so Mireille kept her mouth shut.

As soon as she arrived and dropped knock-kneed off her horse, Cassandra bounded over and gave her the deepest bow she’d ever seen, and she’d met the Divine. “Hello to you too, Seeker.”

“I am glad to see you again,” Cassandra said formally, tucking her hands behind her back. “We have made some headway on the Redcliffe Road. There are a few pockets of bandits still left, but we are confident we can take care of them. We have also spoken to the Warden, Blackwall, I will introduce you…”

Mireille let the other woman’s voice wash over her, trying very hard not to fall over on her wobbly legs as they walked through the camp. Something about her accent and her serious demeanor was deeply comforting. Which was odd, since she’d met Cassandra about a month ago and at that point the woman had been just about ready to kill her –

“Yes,” she said, suddenly aware that last sentence had been a question.

Cassandra nodded. “Excellent. We’ll leave immediately.”

Maker, what had she just agreed to…? “Ah. Yes. Certainly. As long as we’re walking,” she added hastily.

The Seeker chuckled. “Has your combat training been going well? Perhaps you can show me what you’ve learned when we make camp for the night. I should warn you, these bandits are well equipped. I hope you are feeling…well, better prepared, at least.”

“Not difficult.” Mireille rubbed at her arm, which was _still_ sore from a particularly nasty staff blow and it had been four damn days already. “It’s been going well, I suppose. I’m not particularly good at it, but I’m only getting the snot beaten out of me about six times a day now, so that’s an improvement.”

Cassandra raised her eyebrows. “An…interesting method of combat training.”

“We’ll see how well it’s worked,” Mireille replied, as they walked into camp.

 

* * *

 

 

“Bandits are _shit,”_ she yelled, firing off another blast of electricity at an archer trying to hide behind a tree.

“And you’ve only been here twelve hours!” Varric’s crossbow discharged with a _kachunk_ and felled one of the bandits dueling with Cassandra and the Grey Warden. “Aren’t you glad you came to the Hinterlands now?”

“No!” Mireille twisted around and concentrated, coaxed the citrine in her staff to heat up, further and further, and then raised her arms and fire exploded out of the ground and immolated the bandit attempting to sneak up behind them. _Damn_ she was glad she’d made a fire staff.

She turned and swung, launching another blast of electricity to arc between the warriors in the center of the clearing, and then said, “Urk,” because there was a knife at her throat.

The bandit was not a small man and he smelled absolutely terrible – probably because she’d just tried to light him on fire – and he hissed in her ear, “Drop the staff.”

“Don’t need it,” she said, dropping it, and hoping she could actually remember the throw Cullen had taught her last week. Grab the knife and pull it away and to the side, leg back to support, hips under and tuck in to throw him off balance and _throw_ all in the space of two seconds and there was a burning sensation at her throat and the bandit _flew_ right over her back and down on the ground, and for good measure she snapped his captive elbow across her knee, which made him scream.

“Damn,” Varric said, turning back to her and aiming his crossbow at the bandit. The man went silent. “Please tell me that’s superficial, Herald. Gurgle once if you need a potion.”

She slapped her hand at her throat and it came away bloody, but the cut was small, barely a scratch. “It’s all right, just a scratch.”

“Lucky,” he replied, and shot the man in the throat. “Oops, did that just go off? Oh, drat. Bother. Blast. Stone’s bones.”

Mireille retrieved her staff and the two warriors immediately looked up from their examination of the bandit before them. “I’m fine,” she called, walking over.

“It was very impressive,” Varric added, joining them at the body. “You get any information out of this one? The Herald broke the other guy.”

“Got some blood out of him,” Blackwall grunted, wiping his blade on a shred of the bandit’s tunic. “Not much else.”

The Seeker toed the corpse at her feet and said, “The road should be clear now, Herald, if you’re ready to proceed. We’ll set up camp here and move on to Redcliffe in the morning, and we can take a look at that cut. Some of these bandits have been using poisoned weapons.”

As she sent up the signal from her staff to let their troops know to move in, Varric sidled up behind her and said, “So either you were already a master of hand to hand combat and Curly’s dead in a ditch, or you two are getting along well enough for him to actually teach you something.”

“Definitely the former.” Mireille fished around in her pocket for a handkerchief and spat on it, wiping at her neck. “Maybe I should invest in a gorget.”

When she glanced down, Varric waggled his eyebrows at her. She rolled her eyes. “You’re incorrigible. Just because you write tawdry books doesn’t mean everything’s a tawdry book. By the way, I don’t have _any_ of your tawdry books.”

“Oh, yeah. The Seeker borrowed them.” He gave her a wicked grin and hoisted the crossbow across his back. “Besides, _everything’s_ a tawdry story if you try hard enough. The Tales of the Champion would’ve been a better seller if I’d been allowed to include everything that man got up to. And into. And onto. It’d make a rock blush.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “I just hope you’re not planning on writing a book about this particular adventure.”

“Well, I was pretty impressed when you flipped that bandit over you like it was nothing.” He winked at her. “Why, got anything _tawdry_ you want to share, Freckles?”

“Absolutely not,” she replied, with a little too much heat. “Don’t you have a tent to set up or something?”

The dwarf just grinned at her and strolled off, chuckling, and Mireille sighed and rubbed at her neck. She’d been lucky.

Frankly, she wished she’d been able to throw Cullen over her shoulder like that, because it would have impressed the hell out of him.

Not that she _wanted_ to impress him, obviously. Mostly she just wanted to shut him up for once, since he’d realized how easy it was to stoke her temper and get her to really try and wallop him, at which point he’d put her down and tell her in great detail where she went wrong, which was immensely frustrating.

Dammit.

She carefully and thoroughly put that thought out of her head, along with the thoughts about the breadth of his shoulders, and the sharp line of his jaw, and –

Dammit!

Mireille scowled and marched herself into the camp, past the incoming bustle of scouts carrying supplies. They’d need to replenish their potions anyway before leaving tomorrow, might as well do it now. Before her stupid brain started thinking again.

 

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter picks up right at the end of In Hushed Whispers, during the last cutscene of that mission.

* * *

 

Mireille Trevelyan had _never_ been so angry in her entire thirty-two years of life on Thedas, and she came out of the time portal – the _fucking_ time portal – with her teeth bared, and it was a lucky break that Dorian had his hand on her shoulder, because when she saw the shock on Magister Alexius’ face she felt the magic surge up to answer her fury and she _almost_ electrocuted him on the spot, no questions asked. Almost. _Almost._

The magister collapsed under Dorian’s gaze, and Cassandra and Blackwall were staring at her, agape.

Fiona was, too.

Mireille crossed the room in three fast strides and had her by the collar before Fiona even blinked. She slammed the elf against one of the wooden pillars of the hall and wished it had been stone. “Do you know what you _did?”_ she hissed. “Do you know what you could have made, you _stupid_ woman? If that had worked, you would have been _red fucking_ _lyrium.”_

The Grand Enchanter’s eyes were wide with horror, and Mireille dug her fist harder into the stupid ornate furry collar and pressed her knuckles against the throat underneath until Fiona sputtered and flailed uselessly against the iron grip. She wanted to throttle her, break her spine, slam her against the pillar until something broke –

It took a _lot_ of effort not to wrap her fingers around that narrow throat, not to _squeeze,_ and in a tight cold voice that didn’t sound like hers, Mireille said, “Do you remember me, Grand Enchanter? Do you remember the letters you sent me when the Circles disbanded? I offered myself as a _diplomat,_ Grand Enchanter. And the deaths of my students, my friends, who came with me because they believed in peace -- those are on your shoulders. And now you’ve got the deaths of the _whole world_ on you to add to that, because you were _stupid_ enough to make a deal with the devil. Because _I saw what you did.”_

A heavy hand rested on her shoulder, and Mireille realized she was breathing hard, that there were tears on her face.

“Herald,” Cassandra said coolly, and Fiona’s eyes flickered between her and the Seeker, round as marbles.

Mireille let go, stepping back, and Fiona gasped and clutched at her throat, leaning away against the pillar. She let the other woman gasp for a moment. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you where you stand. I hope the other mages are less insane than you are, although a bag of cats would be less crazy than you.”

“You can’t,” Fiona gasped. “They won’t – ”

“As it turns out, I’m the Herald of bloody Andraste, haven’t you heard? I rather think I can.” She nodded down the hall and watched the little color left drain out of Fiona’s face. “And I rather think there’s nothing left for you in Redcliffe.”

She bowed, very politely, to the King and Queen of Ferelden, and suppressed a smile as she watched Fiona scramble to recover herself in the face of that icy blonde disapproval.

The King inclined his head toward her, which was very gracious, since she was covered in both human and demon blood and didn’t even want to think about what her hair looked like. “Oh, yes, Herald of Andraste, pleasure’s all ours. Will you be taking this malcontent and her flock with you when you go? Please, please say yes.”

She gave him a sunny smile and turned to Fiona. “Oh, yes. The Inquisition will be happy to take Fiona and her mages in. We’re trying to close the hole in the sky, you see, and we could use all the help we can get. I’m sure the mages will be happy to join our ranks. As conscripts. Under our oversight.”

“I’m sure they’ll be more welcome than they are here,” the Queen said, with a cool appraising glance at her. “Best of luck, Herald.”

Fiona swallowed hard and tucked her hands into her sleeves, her voice sour. “I suppose we have no choice.”

“You gave that up _long_ ago,” Mireille said, shoving her by the shoulders toward the door. “Move. It's a long way back to Haven.”

 

* * *

 

The mages were restless on the way back. Of course, walking up the Frostbacks wasn’t a treat even in summertime, and they were still soft from the Circles, still struggling. Mireille walked through them every few hours, healing a blister or comforting an apprentice, ignoring the former Grand Enchanter’s occasional sharp glare. She felt better as they left the trees and climbed through the narrow passes. It was a relief to be leaving the mosquitoes behind, leaving the conflict.

For the most part, anyway.

Blackwall came up to her on the second day of their journey and said quietly, “Herald, we’ve got a problem with one of your charges.”

He looked so rattled that she actually checked her horse and got off, handing the reins to a passing scout. “Show me.”

The Warden led her through their lines, back through the straggling mages, where a young elven woman waited. Her dark hair was tousled and there was a cut on her wrist and Mireille felt her stomach drop right down into her ankles.

“I tried to stop her,” she sobbed, gripping her wrist. “I tried – ”

“Where?” Mireille grabbed her by the shoulders. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Where is she?”

“A – a cave we passed,” the apprentice whimpered, flinching away from her, and Mireille was off, drawing her staff from its straps.

The cave was only a little off the path an hour behind them, the footsteps clear as day through the snow, and when they could see it Blackwall murmured, “I can take care of this, Herald.”

She wrapped her fingers tighter around her staff and whispered, “Just be ready if I miss.”

The Warden looked like he wanted to argue with her, but she silenced him with a glare and crept up toward the cave.

When she laid the blade of her staff at the apprentice’s neck, the knife clattered out of her pale fingers and she froze in place, and Mireille said sharply, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I – I – you can’t! I won’t listen to you – ”

Too late, she noticed the blood, smeared over the rocky floor. The smell of charred hair was beginning to fill the cave and Blackwall dashed forward as the girl’s shoulders hunched and changed and melted, and Mireille raised her staff to swing and was batted away by a clawed hand that burned straight into her leather coat, and then the Warden’s sword was through the abomination’s ribs, and as it sputtered lava at her from almost-human lips she swept the blade of her staff around with all her strength and its head thumped down to the cave floor.

She could feel the rage demon’s presence in the Fade, hot and furious and pressing, but it was powerless without a more direct connection, and she. They both knew it, too, because finally its insistent presence vanished, although she thought she could hear an angry hiss.

She promptly walked out of the cave and vomited into the snow.

When she came back, trying to ignore the burnt stench of blood, Blackwall was kneeling by the corpse. It had shrunk back to a woman, the transformation not complete before she’d killed it. “It was a good, quick death. Merciful.”

Mireille wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “This can’t happen again. We have to keep them from even thinking it.”

“Freedom’s all well and good, but that – ” he waved his hand at the mess – “that’s just another kind of chains. Why would any of them even think it?”

“They think it’ll give them power,” she murmured, bending to the corpse’s wrist. There was a woven bracelet tied around it, made by clumsy fingers, and she carefully removed it. “No consequences. Never mind how many of them die to it, there's always someone desperate enough to try.”

He stood and nodded to her, all respect. “What shall we do with this, Herald?”

“Bury it.”

She led him out of the cave and quested out with her magic for the mountainside, reminded the snow that gravity wanted it to fall anyway, and the hillside grumbled in response and the open throat of the cave vanished under clean smooth whiteness, bandages over a rotting wound.

Blackwall put a hand on her shoulder. “All right there, Lady?”

“Thanks for following me,” she said, and meant it.

He shrugged. “You’ve been a friend to me so far. Might as well make sure you don’t get killed haring off after blood mages.”

She barked a harsh laugh that fell dead into the cool air. “Let’s hope we don’t have to do any more of that. One abomination per day is more than enough for me.”

They trudged back up the hill.

When she gave the apprentice the bracelet, the young elf sobbed and rushed into her arms, and not knowing what else to do she sank down with her into the snow, stroking her hair and whispering reassurances, remembering other names and other faces shifting into demon shapes.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “Never again. I’m so sorry.”

The apprentice raised her face, tear-stained and puffy. “Never ever. If anyone else tries to do that I’ll – I’ll – well, I guess I’ll come get you, but I’m going to punch them first. Mythal and Elgar’nan, I wished I’d just held her back – for another – ”

“It’s not your fault,” Mireille said sternly. “She chose this. It was stupid, but she chose it.”

“Now she’s gone – ”

Balls. “Here, now,” Mireille said, picking the young woman up with some difficulty, given their relative heights. “You’re still here. What’s your name, apprentice?”

“Willow.”

“Willow, are you any good with animals?”

The apprentice sniffed and nodded. “I used to work on a farm. Goats, sheep, horses…”

“Oh, good. We’ve got a _lot_ of horses and not enough hands. Do you think you can take care of some horses?”

Another nod. Mireille smiled at her. “Good girl. Let me introduce you to Warden Blackwall, he’ll tell you what to do.”

She left the apprentice in Blackwall’s care, and he nodded in approval. That left her to her own thoughts as she clambered back on her horse. And _that_ was unpleasant, so she concentrated on letting the big forder pick his careful way up the pass and braiding his mane into something intricate and complicated, because it was a _lot_ better than thinking about – everything. Anything.

 

* * *

 

The debrief in the War Room was the longest meeting of her life, and Mireille thanked Andraste and the Maker and every elven god seven times over for the foresight and kindness of Josephine Montilyet, because when she got back to her cabin there was a copper tub by the fire full of steaming jasmine-scented water. She had a feeling the large bottle of whiskey was Varric’s doing, though.

She laid her staff under the tub and stoked fire through it gently, just enough to keep the water near scalding, and sank under the surface and for a brief moment the heat washed everything away.

She scrubbed at her hair under the surface and then let herself float, and maybe she fell asleep, because when Sera said, “Ooh, whiskey,” she opened her eyes and glared at the ceiling.

“Have we talked about not breaking into my cabin?” she said to the air.

Sera appeared in her vision, grinning madly. “Nah, we haven’t. Not here to ravish you, though, you’re not my type. I like big strong ladies. All muscly an’at.”

“Thanks,” Mireille said, sinking farther into the water and sighing. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

“Oh, yeah, cos you’re all grimdark murdery now and I wanted to get in good.” Mireille heard her sit down and thunk her chin on the tub right above her head, and did her best to glare at the elf while upside down and naked in a tub. Sera just smirked at her. “Also, Varric wanted to talk at you, but he was all ‘it can wait’ and I was all ‘pish tush, if she’s in a tub she can’t bloody well murder you, now can she?’ So here I am, in your face again.”

Mireille snorted into the water, blowing bubbles. At least you knew where you stood with Sera: usually a little off balance. “Sera, I’m a mage, of course I could murder you from the damn tub.”

“Yeah, but you look real comfy, so I’m feelin’ okay about it.”

“I am pretty comfortable,” she admitted. “What’s this…murdery business?”

“Oh, he’s all worried about you. As if you’re not some grown up lady who can handle a little murder times. Actually, p’raps you’re not, you’re real short.” Sera frowned down at her. “Maybe that’s why you’re such a grumblecunt all the time. Too much grumble, not enough…cunt?”

“Maker’s breath, Sera,” she said, trying to hide her giggles in the bathwater.

“’S true, innit?” The thief grinned and scratched at Mireille’s head with her fingers, and when Mireille made a contented noise she dug in, massaging her scalp. “See, now you definitely won’t murder me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it anyway,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. “But, also, stop breaking into my cabin.”

“Eh, maybe.” Sera paused. “So you’re all murder times now, yeah? That’s cool, sometimes you’ve gotta break a few heads to make a cake. Especially when they’re set to murder you right on back. You’ve gotta keep being all glowy so people know who to follow, right? Can’t be glowy if you’re dead.”

Mireille opened her eyes. “Sera, that was surprisingly insightful.”

“I’m full of wisdom,” she replied happily. “And I’d like to be full of whiskey. I’d say let’s play Diamondback but I’m already lookin’ at all your bits and I mean, tit’s a tit, but…”

“Excuse me, my tits are _excellent.”_ Mireille scowled at herself. “Maker’s breath, what am I, sixteen?”

“Just cos you’re some bigshot enchanter Herald glowy thing doesn’t mean you can’t be proud of your tits,” Sera said reasonably. “Gotta have something to be proud of, even if it’s covered in freckles – hey!” she added, because Mireille had splashed her full in the face with water.

The night dissolved into whiskey and giggling, and she beat Varric and Dorian _and_ Sera at Diamondback as soon as she discovered how many cards Sera had up her sleeve, and she managed to fall asleep in a warm haze of alcohol.

She didn’t dream, and it was _bliss_.

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

“We’re almost ready,” the Commander said, turning over a troop marker in his fingers. “The Bull’s Chargers have swelled our ranks and we’ve picked up a number of Hinterlands volunteers. Between the new lieutenants and Warden Blackwall, we can afford to step up training the newest recruits and give them some last minute preparations in case we find something waiting for us up there.”

“We’ve also received a substantial amount of aid from King Alistair for our help with the mages and the Venatori.” Josephine flipped a few pages. “Generous, one might even say.”

Leliana looked over the ambassador’s shoulder, then up at Mireille across the table. “The mages are still being…difficult. The Grand Enchanter has been awfully quiet.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Mireille said, folding her arms and looking down at the map. “They’re used to cushy Circles and Redcliffe’s castle, but they’re getting used to this relatively quickly. I think most of them will be helpful, bar a few dissenters.”

“For their sake I hope it’s only a few. I’d hate to think what will happen if we don’t have enough magic to close this,” Cullen said.

She looked at him until he glanced away and said coolly, “I’ll deal with them. What’s our deadline?”

“Two weeks?” He ticked off items on his fingers, looking up at the ceiling. “I want to recalibrate the trebuchets, your Blades of Hessarian want to follow you into combat and should be here in a few days, we’ve got teams shoring up the walls in case something gets this far…two weeks.”

“Good.”

Leliana tapped her fingers on the table. “Herald, if we’re finished here, I believe I have a mage robe in my office if you’d like it. Perhaps the mages will look more fondly on you if you remind them you’re a senior enchanter.”

“Good point.” Mireille ran her hand through her hair and sighed. “Okay, yes. Commander, I have no idea how long the mages are going to want to have my ear, so I may not show up on time for training.”

“You say that like you’ve ever shown up on time.” He just rolled his eyes when she scowled at him. “I need to speak with Lieutenant Aclassi anyway. Please don’t threaten any mages with bodily harm this time, would you?”

“That was only once!”

“A memorable once, from what I’ve heard.”

She sucked in a breath, then settled for giving him a hot glare and leaving the room with more flounce than was really necessary.

Josephine and Leliana had already arrived in the spymaster’s tent when she pushed open the Chantry door. Leliana’s face was as inscrutably pleasant as usual, but Josephine looked like the cat that ate the canary. “You’re looking suspiciously pleased with yourself,” Mireille said to the ambassador. “Did you just convince the Empress to support us or something? Here I thought I was just picking up a change of clothes.”

Leliana rummaged around in a trunk and handed her a blue bundle. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” Mireille unfolded the cloth. “Is this…wait, is this _my_ robe?”

“Yes,” Josephine said, beaming.

“I thought it burned,” Mireille whispered, running her thumb over the stitching, black and white and gold. She’d embroidered the sleeves right after she made senior enchanter, worked on it for three weeks straight. “I woke up without it.”

“It _was_ burned,” Leliana said. “I thought you might like to have the remains, and Josephine suggested perhaps we should make an effort to restore it.”

“I hope the cloth is right.” Josephine lifted her board to cover her mouth, suddenly nervous. “It was, uh, not the easiest color to match after all the fire, but I think it’s close – ”

It was _her robe._ Mireille swept the ambassador in a hug that made the woman squeak in surprise. “I think she likes it, Leliana.”

Mireille buried her face in the puffy gold shoulder and squeezed Josephine tighter, her eyes burning, then let her go and hugged Leliana, too. It was about as uncomfortable as you’d expect hugging someone in chainmail to be. The spymaster stiffened, and then dropped her arms over Mireille’s shoulders and patted her back awkwardly. “I suppose so.”

She let go of the spymaster and ran her fingers over the embroidery again, reassuring herself that it was still there. “I’ll, ah, try not to get blood all over it.”

“I am _not_ making you another one,” Josephine warned. “The embroidery alone!”

Mireille was grinning so hard she thought the top of her head might fall off. “Thank you. I’m – thank you.”

“Go show the mages who leads them now, Senior Enchanter,” Leliana said, shooing her off, but she was smiling too.

 

* * *

 

The robe was – well, it was _hers._

It fit almost the same, open at the front, short bell sleeves, the collar folded back to expose the muted green lining that was nearly the right shade. She suspected it was Josephine who had included the fresh green sash and the long belt with the sunburst eye of the Inquisition as the buckle, but it was only Leliana who’d made the pockets deeper and added a few new ones along the interior. Someone had tucked into the bundle a long-sleeved black overshirt, so long that the sleeves covered her palms and had little holes for her thumbs, and a stiff-collared undershirt, and when she put the whole ensemble on she felt more at home than she had in – years.

So it was _really_ disappointing when she walked into the mages’ encampment and someone yelled, “Traitor!”

She whipped her head around to target the voice in question, and a little Orlesian fellow in dusty robes quailed as she stalked toward him. “You have a problem with me, Enchater? Shall I remind you that your last leader indentured you to a Tevinter magister, and that the King of Ferelden would have been more than happy to slaughter the lot of you for her sins?” She gave him a knife-blade smile. “Perhaps you’d like to go back and see if he’ll make an exception for you?”

The little mage quailed at her sudden fury. “I – didn’t mean – ”

“Yes, you did,” she said, and patted him on the shoulder. “Learn to express your opinions more quietly and reasonably, and then we can have a civil chat about how you feel about my actions. Yes?”

“Yes, Senior Enchanter,” the little mage murmured, and scampered off.

Mireille turned around and drew herself up to her full five feet two inches of authority, and said to the gathering, “Would anyone else like to have a conversation about what a terrible person I am, or may I speak to the former Grand Enchanter now?”

“No need for that,” Fiona said, strolling through the mages. Her face was still awfully pale, and Mireille wondered viciously if it was from fear of her. “I’m here. What do you want?”

There was a substantial crowd of mages in the clearing between the tents now, and Mireille raised her voice. “We assault the Breach in two weeks, and we can’t do it without the mages. So we have two weeks to get you ready to close a hole in the sky. We’ve enough supplies now to make sure everyone is armed and ready when that day comes, but I need to know you’re with me. Are you?”

The mages glanced at each other, hesitant, and then a tall elven apprentice shouldered her way through and said in a clear voice, “Yes, Senior Enchanter!”

“Thank you, Apprentice Willow. There’s one,” Mireille said, fixing Fiona in her eye. “Anyone else?”

The crowd mumbled, but it sounded surprisingly assenting. Fiona gazed at her levelly, and Mireille sighed. “Look, I can’t bloody well get anyone to elect me First Enchanter with the Circles dissolved, so I’m the highest damn authority you’ve got and apparently the only one inclined to give you the time of day. I don’t really give a rat’s ass how much you _like_ me. I’m a little busy trying to save the whole damn world. Are you going to come with me, or not?”

“Tell me,” Fiona said, raising her voice. “What possesses a mage who killed every Templar in her Tower to try and stand above us, not with us? What makes you think you’re better than us, that you’re fit to lead?”

She was frozen, paralyzed with sheer fury, and Fiona must have mistaken it for fear, because there was a sharp gleam in her eyes as she spoke. “You rebelled just as we did, and now you pretend you’re above such base things. I made the best choice for my people, and you just want to put a leash on us again. How can you do such a thing to your fellow mages?”

Slowly, not quietly, voice smooth and chilly, Mireille said, “Let’s go over this again, then. You indentured your people to a _Tevinter magister_ who tried to use _bloody time magic_ to destroy the world and let a would-be god usher in a demon army to kill _everyone._ Your best choice nearly got your mages destroyed.”

The crowd was murmuring, alarmed, and she added, “And by the way? I killed three Templars. Do you know what their names were? Knight-Commander Arden Worthing. Knight-Corporal Kerin Meredith Anton. Templar Miriam Demont. They were my friends, and when things fell apart, they were scared. So was I. Guess who helped me kill them and save my apprentices? Knight-Captain Brynn Ashton, and the loyal Templars under her.” She stepped closer to Fiona, who stepped back, her eyes widening. “I would take it back in an _instant_ if I thought I could preserve them, Fiona. You act like it’s some heroic thing and it is _not.”_

She raised her voice again, sweeping her gaze over the crowd, and some of the younger mages actually flinched back. “I conscripted you because your leader tried to protect you and failed. That doesn’t mean the rest of you’ve lost your damn heads. If you’re a person with an actual moral compass, you’ll be safe and happy with the Inquisition for as long as we’re around, and if you want to leave afterward you can, no questions asked. You don’t want to fight, that’s fine, you find some other way to help. If you endanger my army or my allies, I will _put you down._ And if you support me, you’ll go down in history as a hero, because you’re going to close the fucking Breach and even the rogue Templars are going to look at you with respect, because I didn’t come to them for help. I came to you, because I know what mages are capable of. You’re capable of saving all of Thedas like nobody else is.”

A few people actually cheered at that, hesitantly, and then more loudly. Mireille grinned. “You’re with me, then?”

The cheering was _loud_ this time.

“Excellent.” She twirled her staff in her hands and glanced at Fiona, who looked as if someone’d spat in her tea. “All right. Come talk to me if you want or need something, and we’ll see what the Inquisition can do for you. If you have a specialty that’s useful, like healing, _really_ come talk to me, we love healers and we can use everyone we can get. Thank you for listening to me.”

The crowd began to disperse, and Apprentice Willow was the first one to come to her side, grinning. “Herald! I mean, Senior Enchanter. I mean – ”

“Whatever you want to call me, Apprentice.”

The young woman gave her a dazzling grin. She was wearing her friend’s woven bracelet around her wrist. “The Warden told me I should talk to the horsemaster, and _he_ said he’s never seen anyone better with animals and he wants me to help take care of them! Thank you,” she said earnestly, grasping Mireille’s hands in hers. “For everything.”

“Of course,” Mireille said, and noted the length of the line forming behind the young elf, and added, “If you want to help out even more, would you get me some paper and a pen? I’m afraid I’m going to have a _lot_ of requests to write down.”

 

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

It took _hours._

By the time the mages dispersed it was dark and snowing, Mireille’s hand was cramping, and she had six pages of scratchy writing detailing the mages’ requests and specialties and demands. She was finally heading back toward camp with her notes when she spotted Fiona lurking at the edge of the tents, looking somewhat abashed.

“Grand Enchanter,” she said, trying very hard not to think about how easy it would be to choke her to death.

“Not anymore.” Fiona tucked her hands behind her back and didn’t quite look her in the face. “I…may have been misinformed about your activities in Ostwick.”

“May have?”

The grand enchanter winced, but kept on anyway. “I thought you were one of us, that’s why I accepted you as a diplomat. You didn’t seem as open about being a rebel, you had a reputation for being dependable and level-headed, you would be an excellent liaison between the Loyalists and the Libertarians…I should have confirmed, should have told you what I’d heard, but I was foolish, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Mireille said, in a voice that would have cut glass.

Fiona raised her eyes, the sharp gleam returning. “When I first saw you…I thought perhaps your pet Templar had convinced you otherwise. That your principles had been compromised, that you agreed with – ”

“My – do you mean the _Commander?”_

The elf actually flinched back from her. “As I said. I was misinformed, and I misjudged you. I may not agree with your decisions, but I’ve impugned your character and you did not deserve it. I apologize.”

Mireille stared at Fiona until she stepped back and lowered her eyes. “Senior Enchanter, I’ve done what I’ve done. Perhaps I’m not handling this with much grace, but I’ve been Grand Enchanter a long time. It’s…difficult to see my people turn against me, after I fought so hard for what I thought they believed in.”

After a long, long moment, Mireille hiked in a breath of freezing air and said, “You enslaved your people and nearly ushered in the end of the world. We’re hanging on a fucking knife edge, and you still think you’re a better leader than I am.” Her voice was getting louder. “I probably should have you clapped in irons for the rest of your life, but I need every single mage I can get, because _I’m_ trying to save this stupid world and every stupid person in it. Even you. Dissent is going to kill us faster than even an army of demons can manage. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I think you’ve made that clear.” Fiona shivered. “Thus, my apology. I know when I’m beaten.”

“Maker, I hope you do, because I need your help.” Mireille stuck out her hand, so fast that Fiona jumped. “We have plenty of work to do.”

The grand enchanter considered her hand like it was a live viper, then gingerly reached out and shook it. Progress.

 

* * *

 

“My _principles_ compromised.” Mireille stalked down the hall toward the cellar, because she was feeling angry enough to get up a particularly good stalk and she was not getting less angry as she rolled Fiona’s words around in her head. “The bloody hell does that mean? Compromised, my _ass._ And ‘my pet Templar,’ who does she think I _am_ – ”

“Did you just say what I think you just said?” Cullen asked as she came around the corner.

Fuck, she’d definitely been saying all of that out loud. “Unfortunately,” she said, pulling off her belt. “Look, Fiona came to talk to me afterward and now I would _really_ like to punch something because I can’t punch _her_ because she’s too bloody – ” She ran out of breath and threw her hands up in frustration. The sash around her waist dropped to the floor and she snarled at it.

Cullen looked altogether too amused and leaned against one of the pillars. “Were you this violent before you learned how to punch someone?”

“My students never made me this bloody furious,” she replied, folding her coat gently over the armor stand and kicking her boots off. “And punching a stone wall isn’t a mistake you make more than once. And I already _knew_ how to punch people.

He tilted his head, considering this. “You knew how to throw a punch, certainly, but not how to actually hit someone.”

She stripped off her outer tunic and tied off her hair, still damp and heavy from the snow, glaring at him from under an errant curl.

“Did you manage to avoid threatening anyone this time?” he asked, as she hoisted the practice staff and strode into the center of the room. “Shall I remind you that intimidating your conscripts is not the best practice?”

“I barely threatened Fiona.” She twirled the staff in her hands, testing the weight. “And if she’s not afraid of me by now, then she’d better learn to be.”

“Andraste’s –  I have to tell you, ruling by dint of fear is not the most…effective way to run an army.”

Mireille struck at him, and their staves clacked together as she pressed the attack, teeth gritted. “And how is that different to what you say to your recruits?”

“My recruits are not mages who’ve never seen outside a Circle in their lives.” He turned it around, jabbed for her stomach, and she sidestepped and rapped him across the knuckles. “There’s a small difference.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she growled, then paused and said, “Andraste’s…what?”

The staff thunked into her skull and she ducked far, far too late, brought her own up to block again. “Fuck! That was almost a _blasphemy,_ you know.”

“Surprisingly, your company often drives one to blasphemy,” he snapped at her, striking again, and she ducked in close and slapped her staff into the soft inside of his knee and he staggered and when their staves clacked together again he shoved her away. “As if you’re one to talk about language.”

“I’m no divine servant, Templar.” She stepped backward and had to step back again, letting him drive her across the room, searching for an opening.

“Oh yes, my mistake, _Herald of Andraste._ ” He tried to shove his staff between hers and her body, trying to yank the wood out of her hands, and she let go with one hand and swung out with the other, catching him across the ribs and driving him back.

“That was _not_ my idea,” she said, and managed to grab the weapon in time to get it up to block the blow to her head, and the momentum behind it forced her staff back into her face and she tasted blood as it smashed across her cheek and split her lip open, hot and sharp across her tongue.

Then Cullen’s staff snapped down into the circle of her arms and twisted and the wood went flying across the room and she ducked backward and away, and he said with a sneer, “You are _rusty_ , Enchanter. Did you actually fight anything in the Hinterlands, or did you just threaten old women?”

Oh _Maker’s balls_ she’d managed to forget about the Hinterlands for _two seconds –_ Mireille dodged backward and when she glanced back to check her footing his staff caught her at the corner of her shoulder and spun her and slammed her back against his chest and at least it wasn’t a knife this time, she thought, as she grabbed his arm and tucked her hips back and _yanked_ him off balance and he sailed over her back and landed – half on his feet, crouched down, and she snarled, _“Fuck you,”_ and she still had the staff behind his head from the throw so she kicked the back of his knee as hard as he started to stand and twisted the length of wood sharply so it snapped out of his hands and yanked it up against his throat.

The war-drum rhythm of her heartbeat was suddenly the loudest thing in the empty cellar, and Cullen was looking up at her with a faint smile on his stupid unshaven face, and she snapped, “What?” and then realized his hands were on the staff too. And suddenly he’d ducked back and down under the wood, wrenching it around in her hands with more strength than she could ever muster, and then the staff hit her in the back of the legs as he whipped around and his fist closed on the front of her shirt and she narrowly avoided smashing her head against the flagstones.

Her lip was still bleeding, her mouth full of salt and iron. “You know, I’m beginning to think I’m never going to win.”

“You did well, actually.” Cullen let go of her shirt, letting her head fall to the floor. “It was a well-executed throw, it just doesn’t work as well with a staff. In a real fight, you’d have won just by crushing the throat. And you didn’t let me disarm you. The first time, at least. You’re bleeding quite a bit there, are you all right?”

“It’s fine.” She wiped at her face again. “Lips bleed a lot. You know, the bandits thought it was impressive.”

“Bandits are not known to be sophisticated fighters.”

“Yes, because needling me until I try and fail to beat the shit out of you is sophisticated.” He offered a hand to pull her to her feet, and she ignored it, pulling herself up. Her hair was coming out of the tie already and she blew it out of her eyes, wincing as her split lip tore again. “I’m sure the Marquis of Fantailler will write a book about _that_ style of fighting.”

“Unless you’d like to pick up a sword and shield, this is what you get.” Cullen retrieved her staff and tossed it at her. “If you don’t like it, then by all means, please feel free to get yourself killed.”

 “I never said I was sophisticated,” she pointed out, taking position again.

“I’ve noticed,” he said flatly, and swung at her.

She blocked, and pressed in, swinging between his knees to knock him off balance, and he snapped his staff downward against her knuckles and pushed her away, out of reach. She blinked sweat out of her eyes and blocked his high strike and shoved against his staff for momentum to swing her leg around in a kick to his kidney, and it knocked him back stumbling for a brief moment, and she said, “It’s working, isn’t it?”

“Do you think so?” He stepped back around – turned the _opposite_ way she’d been expecting him to, dammit – and the staff came around and smacked across her back and sent her stumbling, losing her grip – and her empty hand was twisted right up behind her back and Cullen said in her ear, “It doesn’t look like it, but perhaps I’ve missed something.”

She slammed her head back and hit what felt like a shoulder. He twisted her arm up a little higher and her nerves screamed. “You are still holding a bloody staff, Trevelyan, make use of it.”

“Could you shut up for _one second,”_ Mireille snarled, and jabbed the staff hard into the top of his foot, and that loosened his grip enough that she could break free and circle around with both hands on the staff, and he’d _dropped_ his, and as he went for it she smacked his hand and he had to jump back from her longer reach.

Then he took a strike on the arm and closed in, got a hand on her staff, shoving it down and trying to rip it out of her fingers, and said two inches from her face, “Am I distracting you, Trevelyan? Feeling compromised?”

She actually stopped moving and said with suspicion, “Are you trying to _flirt_ with me, Commander?”

The mocking smirk dropped off his face like a stone off a cliff and he raised his hands and said, “I’m sorry, _what?”_

At which point she swept the staff behind his legs and dumped him neat as you please on his ass, and when he tried to stand she planted a boot on his chest and the staff on his bicep, pressing him to the stone. The tie in her hair finally gave up the ghost and the mass of curls dropped down across her shoulders like a punctuation mark.

Cullen glared at her, his face flushed. “That was _not_ a win. That was a – miscalculation.”

“Looks like a win to me,” she said, grinning fiercely down at him through a curtain of hair. “A win by distraction is still a win.”

His eyes narrowed and he kicked her in the knee, just hard enough to bend it, and she lost her balance and fell backward and he was up and surging forward in less than a second, the staff uselessly tangled in her legs, his knee pressing down on her ribs.

“Okay, it looks a bit less like a win from down here,” she admitted. “I still think you’re a sore loser.”

“You can think whatever you’d like.” He sat back, rubbing his neck, his face bright pink. “And I was – I would _not –_ ”

“Don’t worry, you’re not my…well, I don’t think _anyone’s_ type is ‘stick up the ass,’ actually.” Mireille sat up and pushed her hair out of her face.

He stared at her. “You absolutely never stop being infuriating, Trevelyan. It’s amazing.”

“I could say the same about you, Rutherford.” She fumbled for the tie and twisted her curls together into something more manageable. “Ugh, that’s terrible. I can’t even say that with a straight face.”

“It’s a perfectly reasonable name, thank you. Just because it doesn’t have a pedigree – ”

“Not very intimidating for a commander, though, is it?”

He stood up and retrieved his staff, scowling at her. “You were saying, _Mireille?”_

“I’m plenty intimidating already.” She eased herself to her feet, rubbing at her split lip and ignoring the little twist in her stomach when he said her name.

Cullen looked down at her with a smirk and she snapped, “Someday I’m going to take you down and you’re going to really regret that facial expression.”

“I would _love_ to see that.”

She lifted her lip in a snarl, which split it further, and went after him with blood in her mouth.

 

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Concentrate, Herald…”

Mireille opened one eye to regard Vivienne with annoyance. “I’m _trying,_ First Enchanter – blast, sodding _son of a_ – ”

She jumped back as the ball of fire in her hands exploded, shaking sparks out of her coat, and Vivienne raised her perfect eyebrows.

“I am so bloody tired of being on fire!”

“Perhaps we should start smaller,” the first enchanter mused. “Or with a different element.”

Mireille dusted herself off, stamping out a few burning twigs on the ground under her. At least most everything was covered in snow out here. “Look, I have no problem with cold. It’s not that hard. Electricity is fine. Lightning starts fires, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but you’ve made yourself a fire staff, and if you run into something with a particular weakness, you should be able to exploit it.”

“Well, that’s annoyingly reasonable,” Mireille grumbled, which made Vivienne smile. “If you don’t mind, First Enchanter, I’d like to take a break and get something to eat before I try that particular trick again.”

“Didn’t they teach you fire in the Circle, my dear? I recall Ostwick had a particularly good primal specialist.”

“Crowley?” She grinned. “He worked with me for _weeks_ trying to get me to learn fire. I finally lit a candle and he was so happy he called in the First Enchanter and made me show her, and of course I couldn’t do it again.”

Vivienne chuckled. “At least you’ve improved since then.”

“Oh, definitely. Ask me to light a candle and I’ll impress anybody.”

They left the little island and made their way across the frozen lake, Vivienne gliding like she’d always been skating across ice in the middle of the Frostbacks and Mireille following without slipping more than once or twice, at least.

“It just doesn’t click with me,” she continued, as they picked their way up the hill back to Haven. “I could touch your hand and tell you within a minute what’s wrong with your foot, but I can’t light someone on fire, apparently. Well, I can, but they don’t stay on fire very long.”

“Oh, could you? My ankle’s been hurting like the dickens for three days,” Dorian said, stepping up to join them from where he’d been chatting with an apprentice. “Good evening, First Enchanter.”

“Altus,” Vivienne said smoothly. “Perhaps you can help us with our Herald’s…fire problems.”

Mireille put her hand on Dorian’s bare shoulder and thought for a moment, feeling for pain or misalignment. “Your ankle’s just twisted, stay off it for a day or two. You should probably consider drinking more water up here, though, we’re high up in the mountains and it’ll make you less dizzy.”

He blinked at her and then at Vivienne. “That’s impressively unsettling. Do all your healers do that?”

“Senior Enchanter Trevelyan has always been talented,” Vivienne replied, with heavy amusement. “You’ve become much better at that since last I saw you, darling.”

Mireille smiled. “Thank you, First Enchanter. I’ve had a regrettable amount of practice.”

“And yet you’d like to start lighting people on fire.” Dorian smoothed his mustache. “You didn’t seem all that bad at it in Redcliffe, to tell you the truth.”

“It’s a lot easier when I’m so angry I can’t think straight.”

“And more dangerous,” Vivienne added, gently.

“That, too.” Mireille sighed and leaned against Haven’s wall, keeping her eyes away from the Breach. “Maybe I’ll ask Minaeve if we’ve found any fire-vulnerable demons. If we’re fighting a bear, I’m out of luck, but I’d rather fine-tune something I’m good at in the limited time we’ve got.”

“Perhaps you’ll make a breakthrough,” Dorian said, patting her on the head. She rolled her eyes at him, and he laughed. “I can’t imagine I can help you more than the First Enchanter here, but if you’d like someone to make jokes as _well_ as be stunningly gorgeous – ” He bowed dramatically to Vivienne. “Well, let me know.”

“He’s certainly an interesting character,” Vivienne said as he strode off into Haven. “But at least he’s very polite.”

Mireille snorted. “He is that.”

“As for you, darling…”

She sighed. “You want me to keep practicing, yes?”

Vivienne smiled at her. “You’ll never get better without practice, my dear.”

Mireille blew a curl out of her face and suppressed a grumble, because grumbling at Vivienne was like grumbling at a particularly charismatic glacier. “All right, but let me eat something first, unless you want to see if being hungry makes me better at fire.”

“Now there’s a thought.”

“Vivienne!”

The first enchanter smiled. “Kidding, darling. Come find me when you’ve had a snack.” She strolled off toward the town, a beacon in white silk.

Mireille lingered for just a moment to fix her eyes on the sun as it drifted down toward the mountains and when she turned back to the gates and nearly ran into the Commander’s gleaming breastplate she really shouldn’t have been surprised. “No one as big as you should move this quietly, Commander.”

“A word, Herald?” he said, voice cold, and she frowned but followed him across the training yard anyway.

As soon as they were far enough from the recruits that they couldn’t be overheard, he leaned a hand on the hilt of his sword and said, “I’m told you took care of a blood mage in our ranks on the way to Haven. Is that true?”

How would he know _that?_ Blackwall wasn’t the type to inform him – unless she’d misjudged him – and she didn’t think Willow would have made it known, but someone had probably noticed the girl’s absence, and Cullen was eyeing her with some suspicion and she said, “Yes. Why?”

“You didn’t think to _tell me?”_

“I took care of it.” Her mouth was dry. “Quickly, and quietly. Should I have grabbed the abomination’s head and paraded it in front of the mages to remind them of the consequences?”

“You could have said something,” he replied, all chilly, righteous fury. “We can watch for such things and take care of them should they happen again. Which they may well. Because apparently we’ve conscripted not only rebel mages but _maleficars.”_

“We’ve conscripted a bunch of scared mages who know now that they can be something more than just a rebel.” She gripped her staff and rolled it between her hands, trying very, very hard not to hit him in the face with it. “I’ve been down there every bloody day, Commander. I am taking care of it. This is not your problem.”

“It endangers the Inquisition, of course it’s my problem.” He frowned down at her. “Is _that_ why you’ve been an hour late to training all week?”

Mireille leaned on her staff and said, “I am handling it. I don’t need your help, and they don’t need Templars watching them. It’ll just make them feel trapped, more desperate.”

Out of the corner of her eye she could see him staring at her, and pointedly didn’t look at him.

He sighed and finally said, “Maker’s _breath_ ,” and there was a whole _world_ of cursing hanging in the air right behind that epithet.

“How did you find out?” she asked, but she couldn’t muster enough heat behind it, with the dead girl staring at her sightlessly from behind her eyes.

“There’s always been rumors that the rebel mages are blood mages, but they’ve gotten worse since the rebels arrived. The mages have been very tight lipped about the disappearance of one of their apprentices. And now there’s an elf apprentice working in the stables who’s very hotly denying that anyone is using blood magic, because the rebel mages are better than that. She’s been actually seeking out the rumormongers so she can yell at them. Reminds me of you, actually.”

She managed a grin. “I think she admires me.”

“Andraste help us if she gets any more admiring. We _really_ don’t need two of you around to give me a headache.” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, would you agree to let me put a few of our lieutenants in the encampment? _Not_ Templars, don’t give me that look. Just people who’ve known mages and can be trusted? That way you won’t have to spend all day there watching them. I’m sure Vivienne would be interested in that sort of thing, and she’s a lot more subtle than…well, either of us, certainly.”

Mireille looked up at him in surprise. “If I didn’t know better, Commander, I’d say you’re actually trying to be helpful. You’ve barely yelled at me at _all.”_

He folded his arms. “I’m sure I could muster up something if you like. It was ten different kinds of idiotic to take care of that yourself, and you won’t get that lucky a second time, you could have been possessed or killed over one mage, I don’t have enough faith in your combat skills to let you tangle with a blood mage alone, and frankly, I probably would have done the exact same thing with more backup.”

“Thank you for admitting I’m right.”

“That is _not_ what I’m saying – ”

She patted him on the arm, which clanked. “Of course it is. I’ll talk to Vivienne.”

“Now who’s admitting who’s – ” He paused, trying to sort out that sentence, as she walked away, and she heard him mutter “Blast it all, Trevelyan,” as she left, grinning to herself.

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps obviously, this one takes place before/during In Your Heart Shall Burn, and incorporates some of the actual mission dialogue -- no need to fix what isn't broken, just season more liberally with the word "fuck."

* * *

 

Things weren’t going to get any more ready than this.

Mireille had asked Harritt to help her make something a little more durable and now there was a glimmering coat of chainmail under her enchanter’s coat, which she’d spent most of the week reinforcing and infusing with protective magic and fire resistance charms. It sat on the stand in the corner of her cabin and glimmered in the firelight. Her staff leaned against it, the blade flickering gold and red and ready to kill.

She’d bathed, because if things went wrong at least she’d die smelling like jasmine, and busied herself draining the copper tub into the privy and cleaning up, tidying her books and papers for – what?

“Stop it,” she told herself sternly, and her shaking fingers lost control of the braid again and her wet hair dropped around her in tendrils. Finally she gave up and just pinned it over the crown of her head, cursing softly. She could swear the mark on her palm was aching again. 

She took a deep breath and rested her forehead against the door, trying to collect herself, and then opened it and strolled out into the early night.

Things were – quiet, and the Breach was a silent menace in the sky as she walked across Haven. There were a few people still bustling around, but most were in their beds by this point, and the nightly cold had crystallized in the air and made the occasional thump and murmur sharp and tinkling. It felt more ominous than it should have. But Varric was still in his usual spot by the fire just below the Chantry courtyard, and as the merchant he was chatting with walked off he looked up and nodded to her. “How’s it going, Freckles?”

She shrugged. “Do you have the same creeping sense of dread I’ve got?”

“Yeah, right between my shoulder blades.” He rolled his neck. “I’m not sure it’s going to be that easy.”

“I just hope it’s not time magic any more. I’m pretty tired of that.”

“Ugh. If I could go the rest of my life without seeing any red lyrium I’d be deliriously happy.” The dwarf sighed. “Of course, now that I’ve said that…”

“Maker, don’t jinx it.”

He grimaced. “Here’s hoping I haven’t, so I can live to write this all down.”

“Varric, I thought you _weren’t_ writing a book about this,” she said accusingly.

“It’s a lot easier to just assume I’m going to write it down if it happens to me.” He winked at her. “Don’t worry, I’ll write you taller than you are.”

“Really looking out for me there, Fuzzy,” Mireille said, tucking her hands into her pockets, because they were _still_ shaking.

“Hey, that’s what friends are for.” He grinned at her. “Tell you what, let me chat with Seggritt real quick and I’ll meet you in the tavern for some Diamondback. We just can’t tell Solas. Actually, maybe we should, he may be the only chance we stand of beating you.”

“I’d like to see him try,” she said with a snort.

Varric laughed. “If you manage, I’ll write it into a chapter.” He trotted off down the steps.

Her hands were still shaking through every hand of cards. They were still shaking when she got into bed, tipsy and only missing her left sock and her overtunic, which was pretty good when you were playing against Solas. They didn’t stop shaking until she closed the Breach, with the power of two hundred mages flowing through her as a conduit, and the mark on her hand finally settled into a faint olive gleam.  

Of course, then it all went to shit.

 

* * *

 

“Go, go, go!”

Mireille leapt over a fallen stone and swung her staff around to slam it through the head of one of the Red Templars, blade first, and it made a horrific squelch and she couldn’t even register it because she had to whip the staff back around her body and funnel electricity hot and white through it into the red lyrium monstrosity coming up behind her.

“You jinxed it, Varric!” she yelled, stabbing the butt of her staff into the thing’s eye, and then a crossbow bolt thunked into its skull and it collapsed and she skipped back out of the way.

“This wasn’t what I had in mind!” The dwarf reloaded and his next bolt sent an archer spinning. She finished the man off with a burst of lightning. Oh, _Maker,_ she recognized his _face –_

Bull came charging up the steps, with gore dripping off his enormous sword, and spotted her. “Listen, a little banter’s great and all, but we’d better get inside before – ” The roar shook the ground under Mireille’s feet so hard she stumbled, and Bull immediately switched from concern to excitement. “Holy shit, nevermind, that’s a dragon!”

“Inside is still good!”

An arrow caught her a glancing blow across the shoulder and barely even tore her coat and she spun her staff around and launched a barrage of snowballs at him, until the Red Templar was half buried in frost, and then Cassandra caught her arm and was hauling her across the Chantry courtyard and into the darkness of the hall, as the ground shook again and she watched the snow drip off the cabins and the dragon _screamed_ across the sky, and then Cullen wrenched the doors shut and slammed the heavy bar down across them.

Mireille wiped sweat off her forehead. “Andraste’s _tits_. Okay. Okay. Options?”

The commander looked up at her, and she could read the answer in his eyes. 

“Well, at least we’ll die cozy,” she muttered. “Anybody? Options?”

The strange pale boy – Cole? That was his name, right? – raised his hand.

“Fuck, I’ve got nothing else, what do you have?”

“The Chancellor,” he said, bending over Roderick, who looked like he’d been punched in the face. She would have actually enjoyed the sight under any other circumstance. Too bad it had to be the end of the world.

She knelt down by the chancellor. 

“The summer pilgrimage route,” he gasped, sitting up. “It’ll take us…out, through the mountain and around. Andraste must have…must have shown me.”

Everyone was watching her. Everyone was looking to her. Oh, Maker, not again, she could _still_ see Ellana’s round eyes as the explosion came, a burst of green – She shook herself and looked up. “Cullen, can you get them out?”

He nodded. “If Roderick can tell me where to go, yes. But they’ll – ”

“Go. I’ll distract them. There’s still one trebuchet, or there was five minutes ago, maybe I can use it. The avalanche worked pretty well the first time.” She looked back at her companions, at Sera counting arrows and Solas’ face impassive as ever despite the blood splattered on it, and added, “I could use help, if anyone’s willing, but no orders. There’s a pretty good chance we’ll all die, especially if this thing is after me. _Not you, Seeker,”_ she snapped as Cassandra stepped forward immediately. “If I – if I don’t come back, they’re going to need you more than anyone.”

Leliana put her hand on the Seeker’s shoulder, and Cassandra looked like she was ready to murder, but nodded and turned away. Recruits and refugees started to gather around her as she moved through the Chantry hall.

Blackwall stepped up, standing at perfect attention. “You’ve got my sword.”

“And mine,” Bull added. “I really want another look at that dragon.”

Varric sighed. “I guess I’ll come too. Who else is going to write about it?”

Mireille looked across at the Commander. “Get them all out. Viv can handle the mages, maybe they can keep you hidden. I’ll buy some time and as soon as you send up a signal I’ll bury this whole damn place.”

He nodded, and waved at Cole, who hauled Roderick to his feet and helped him limp down the hall. Cullen stepped closer, and said quietly, “Are you sure about this? You could – you’ll – ”

“It’s die here or die out there.” Her hands were shaking again. “If they’re going to try to take Haven, they can pry it out of my cold dead hands.”

That made him smile, just a flash of sunlight. “If anybody could do it, it’d be you. Perhaps you’ll surprise it. Or annoy it to death.”

Oh _Maker_ her whole body was shaking in fear now – and Cullen put his hands on her shoulders heavy and solid, and she could see the shreds of gold in his warm brown eyes. He said softly, “Good luck, Mireille,” and then he was gone, calling for lieutenants, organizing the refugees as they drifted toward the back of the Chantry, toward escape. Toward life.

Mireille took a deep breath. Blackwall joined her, just by her elbow, and the Iron Bull took up a place at her other arm, Varric was winding his crossbow behind her, and she let her breath out in a long smooth burst.  Her hands were still shaking. 

"All right, boys," she said, gripping her staff tighter. "Let's go be heroes."

They charged out into the green-tinged daylight, ready to die -- 

 

* * *

 

After a while, she became aware of pain.

That probably meant she wasn’t dead, actually.

Mireille sat up with a groan, and then dropped back down and lay there for a while, trying to process it all. Her doctor’s mind started to make a tally of aches and pains, independent of the long wailing scream that was occupying most of her thoughts.

Eventually she tried sitting up again and added a few more pains to the list. Including – the arrow that had passed all the way through her shoulder, through coat and chain – oh _Maker’s bloody balls_ it was still inside her, she could feel the shaft, and she had to grit her teeth and still half a scream escaped as she got to her feet. Pulling it out – no, it’d bleed more. Better to keep it in. Oh, _Maker…_

Her staff was there, half chewed away by dragon teeth, and she picked it up for something to lean on.

There was something wrong with her ankle, but her brain was too scattered to figure out what, probably because of the nasty cut on her head. There was a lot of blood in the snow underneath her. Her forehead was tacky with it. She couldn’t feel her fingers.

And – her socks were wet.

Dammit.

“What a great way for this to end,” she grumbled, hauling herself to her feet. “Freezing to death in a stupid bloody Maker-forsaken cave. Good job, Andraste. Good choice of Herald.”

Andraste didn’t answer. Mireille sighed and rubbed her aching temples. She’d probably just pass out if she tried to use magic now, so the only answer was to keep walking, to hope she’d get somewhere. She’d been ready to die anyway, so putting it off for a little while wouldn’t be much of an issue.

 

It was cold. Hilarious: she’d killed the demons, sucked them back into the Fade, and now she was going to be killed by the snow she’d kicked up in the first place.

She’d never known it was possible to be this cold.

She tucked her matted hair into the neckline of her robe for warmth and limped through the drifts.

 

Less cold, now. She almost felt warm?

Wait, that wasn’t good. That was – frostbite. She had to…

 

Fade back in. Ashes from a campfire, long dead. She thrust her hands into it, and the slight change in temperature made her scream.

The arrow in her shoulder was shifting as she moved, and warm blood was trickling down her shoulder. It was almost pleasant, the pain numbed.

There was frost on her eyelashes and ice in her hair.

 

So much snow. The staff was the only thing she could see, the only solid object, the citrine in its head a brilliant sun.

Good thing she’d made a fire staff this time. It was almost warm.

 

So much snow…

 

Cold on her face, faintly burning. Where was the staff?

There was light. Noise. Ahead…

Andraste?

 

She closed her eyes.

 

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

Dimly: encircling arms. Low voices, rumbling through her bones, the clank of metal on metal.  

Something soft over solidity, a pillar of strength.

Weightless, drifting, floating.

 

Murmurs – murmurs –

Softness, but not cold. Warmth? How strange.

Tugging on her shoulder, almost tickles, too tired to laugh. Bright white pain and her throat clenches, trying to scream –

Then soothing coolness, dim burning, pressure, a deep ache.

 

Familiar voices, but no words.

Smells, though: cedar, musty fur, pine. Elfroot and embrium. Jasmine and cinnamon. Oil, leather, lavender. Sweat. Blood. Tears.

Rifling pages, scratching on paper. Soft songs – lilting, hymnal. Creaking, clanking, murmuring holy rhythms, familiar from a childhood in echoing halls.

Pain stirring like claws, easing like wind.

Warmth. Quiet.

 

* * *

 

 Mireille Trevelyan, Circle mage turned apostate turned diplomat, former Senior Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle, so-called Herald of Andraste – survivor of Haven – opened her eyes.

Even that hurt, so she had to shut them and take a deep breath through sore and tired lungs before she could manage to open them again.

She was staring at a tent roof, orange with lamplight, blue with shadow, patched poorly. Her senses were coming back slowly and they were all dominated by pain. Like – a burning hand pressed into her right shoulder, a lump of coal stuffed between the bones – she couldn’t think straight to heal it, but reached for the magic anyway, instinctive, and found it already there and working at a slow burn.

Sight wasn’t being very helpful, so she closed her eyes. Hearing finally contributed a sound rather like “Wtsfgl?” and she opened them again, frowning. Finally her brain made sense of the shadow at the corner of her eye, and she managed to turn her head to look.

The Commander of the Inquisition’s forces was slouched in a chair – and why the hell had someone bothered to save a _chair_ during the evacuation, by the way? – beside her cot, in full armor, right hand on the hilt of his sword, stern-faced through the half-grown beard covering his cheeks, and very much asleep. He was drooling. She would have giggled, but suspected it was going to hurt too much to bother.

There was a firm line between his eyebrows even unconscious, and dark circles like craters under his eyes.

She opened her mouth to speak and found that her voice wouldn’t come. Finally she managed to squeak something unintelligible. Cullen’s eyes snapped open and she saw instant fear and fury that shifted into something – soft with relief, as he leaned forward. “Oh, thank the Maker. It’s about time you woke up, Mireille.”

Mireille scowled at him, which tugged at something on her temple and made her eyes water with pain. “Hello to you too,” she managed to rasp out. “The beard is new, was I asleep for three hours or – ”

She coughed, and wondered when she’d grown so many ribs, because every single one hurt. Cullen pushed her gently into a sitting position, pressing a waterskin into her hands. “Here. Slowly. Please don’t hurt yourself making fun of me, although at least you’re feeling well enough to do that, I suppose. And you’ve been asleep for three days, thank you very much.” His voice was rough and quiet, like he’d been shouting for hours.

She took tiny sips, slowly, and when her tongue no longer felt like a lump of sand she said, “Three days? Where are we now?”

“The Frostbacks. We’ve been making progress away from – ” His voice broke, just a little, and he glanced away before continuing. “From Haven. A snowstorm a day ago covered our tracks, but we’re wandering now. Scouts are out looking for a place we can go, but at least we’ll be hard to track. We have enough supplies for a few weeks.”

“That’s something, at least.” The words were hoarse, catching in her throat. “Did – did everyone – ”

He nodded. “Mostly. We’ve lost…well, too many, but given that we almost lost everyone, I suppose you could call this a victory. Your companions are fine. Bull came back hauling Varric _and_ Blackwall on his shoulders – said something about telling you he’s never had this much fun on a job before, and then collapsed. He’s fine, but he took a nasty blow to the head at some point, Adan thought.”

“I’m surprised his nipples didn’t freeze off,” she said, and Cullen snorted.

“Everyone else came with us except you.” His fingers were so warm on her spine, his face serious again, immeasurably weary. “You somehow managed to walk all the way here after the avalanche, even after we’d moved camp twice, with an arrow in your shoulder and a head wound and a broken ankle, half frozen. We weren’t…ah. We weren’t sure if you’d wake again, after that.”

She was used to anger and mocking amusement and frustration, and it felt so strange to have him looking at her with – well, without that.

Mireille realized belatedly that she’d been staring at him for an embarrassingly long time, and said, “Well, it could have been worse.”

“Please enlighten me how it could have been _worse_ than this, Trevelyan.”

“I could have been impaled again, I suppose.”

He tilted his head and gave her a crooked grin through the scruffy beard and she felt _altogether too warm._ “I suppose that does set a high bar. Also, you are absolutely mad.”

“It’s possible. I did get hit in the head a few times. By a darkspawn magister.” She paused. “All right, that does sound insane.”

“A bit, doesn’t it? I’d best let the others know you’re awake. They’ve been taking shifts to sit with you, in case you woke during the night.” Cullen eased her back down onto the cot and she tried to protest but her voice had given out again. “Stay put. You can start doing stupidly brave things again once you can stand up without passing out.”

Since her voice didn’t work she settled for rolling her eyes at him, and he just smiled and stroked a gloved hand over the top of her head, and the tenderness in that gesture froze her in mid eye-roll – and then he walked out of the tent, leaving a gust of chilly wind in his wake.

She could still feel the ghost of his fingers along her scalp, her spine – and maybe she’d dreamed that last bit, because – well – Mireille busied herself by lifting her good arm to feel across the bandage for the stitches. It had been well dressed, the bandage was dry. It was also so raw it hurt to breathe and she couldn’t raise her head to look at it without a spasm of pain.

She reached for her magic, guiding it to probe gently across her body for the aches and pains. A cut on her head, already closing and stitched. All ten fingers and toes, blistered but whole. Fluid in her lungs was the cough, inflamed and unpleasant, and she put it aside to concentrate on her shoulder. The gentle pulse of healing she’d been unconsciously sending into it was helping, speeding things up, but it was still badly damaged and she’d probably have to rebuild some muscle if she wanted to retain use of the joint. And as she examined the tissues and the healing muscle with her magic she realized that even her mental vision was starting to get fuzzy and well, this is what you get for trying to heal yourself right after a coma, she told herself as she passed out.

 

* * *

 

Adan gave her a bowl of broth when she finally woke up again and scolded her continuously as she ate it, her voice too weak to banter back, so she made up for it with hand gestures and taps and finally agreed that the shoulder was going to be well on its way to healing by the time she was healthy enough to push enough magic into it to really fix it. He sentenced her to stay in bed and threatened to strap her in unless she complied, and then thanked her for saving his life, gruffly and with tears in his eyes.

Leliana drifted in sometime in the night, and Mireille awoke to the spymaster brushing out her matted curls, which had backfired horribly and created a puffy halo of hair that drifted whenever she coughed. Josephine had had to politely excuse herself to laugh outside the tent and returned with a tiny bottle of her own personal hair product that smoothed it into something almost manageable and made her smell like cinnamon. So that was why Josephine always smelled so nice.

Vivienne came in and rebraided her tamed hair into something intricate and gorgeous, informing her that appearances were, after all, important, and Dorian pulled a few curls out and told her she looked more daring and capable a little mussed. Sera ran into the tent, gave her a crushing hug that ripped a stitch out of her shoulder, and then ran off, but ten minutes later a mug of hot ginger tea appeared with Apprentice Willow and a note that had “Red Jenny” scrawled on a poorly done drawing of a butt, and Mireille laughed until she started coughing again.

Cassandra laid her enormous shield over Mireille’s legs to prevent her from moving, and then apologized seventeen times for not being there to save her, until Mireille finally sighed and told her she was being touchingly loyal, at which point she blushed and left. Varric came and told her tawdry jokes that got more and more elaborately crude as he went. Blackwall was somber and earnestly assured her that she’d put up an excellent fight worthy of any Grey Warden, and Bull thanked her excitedly for one of the most interesting fights of his life, although he’d really prefer some warning next time so he could put a shirt on for the hike through an avalanche.

Solas sat down beside her, examining the mark on her hand for a long several minutes, and said, “It is part of you now, it seems. If Corypheus could not remove it, it cannot be removed.”

Mireille flexed her fingers. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“It has certainly been useful so far.” The elf sat back, fingers steepled together in his lap. “Do you think you will be bedbound for long?”

“I should take another day or two at most.” She rubbed at her shoulder. “It’s really whether this will open up again. It would take more power than I can put into it without passing out to heal it completely, so it’s not worth trying to push more into it and maybe do it wrong.”

“I see.” He gave her a look that seemed to go right through her head and out the other side. “You are an impressively accomplished healer, Herald. Using magic in such a way while unconscious is an unusual feat. Your body is so accustomed to healing I suspect it reacts automatically and uses all its resources to bring you back to health, and does so without your conscious interference. Does the arm work properly?”

Mireille frowned. “I rebuilt the muscle right, I think. I’ll have to wait until the arm is better healed to test it though.”

“Interesting. Your understanding of the human body is very thorough.” Solas tapped his fingers together a few times. “You are no spirit healer, though.”

“Not -- no. I learned a few tricks from them, but...that's not what I am. I just – ” She paused, trying to think through the fog still in her head. “You can do just about anything with creation if you try, and I was always interested in bodies and medicine. And nobody else wanted to study with the Mortalitasi when he came to Ostwick. I’m good at potions, restoratives…once you see how a body’s put together, if you listen to it, you can put it back the way it’s supposed to be.”

“It’s not without precedent, but not something I expected to hear from a Circle mage, either. Your fellows tend to be less…precise, in their application of such magics. More flashy.” He tilted his head to the side. “When you are back on your feet, Herald, I will show you where we must go. It is not terribly far from here, but you will need to lead them.”

“Where? And why do we need to go there?” she added with suspicion.

“It is the proper place,” he said, as if that answered the question completely.

“That’s very inscrutable of you, Solas. What makes it so proper?”

“It is a very old fortress. Very large, very old, and very secure. It will be your stronghold, large enough to hold an army, solid enough to withstand direct assault should it come to that, and high enough in the Frostbacks to make direct assault a very unpleasant proposition without another Breach – which, as you possess the Anchor, will not be a concern.”

“I see.” She frowned at her hand, gleaming green through her closed fingers. “Why do I have to be the one to find it?”

“Because of what you mean to them,” he said, standing up. “You are, after all, their Herald.”

She sighed, and Solas nodded to her and left the tent, and she ran her hands over her braids and huffed out another sigh for good measure.

She felt alone, and lost, and the weight of a camp of more than a thousand people yoked around her neck was crushing enough that she closed her eyes and ground the palm of her good hand into them, trying to quash her fears. Or at least, trying to fall asleep to escape them. It didn’t work very well.

After a while, she became aware that the chair was occupied again, which was odd, because she hadn’t heard the tent flap move – but yes, that was the boy with the enormous hat, all right, watching her through his long hair.

“Hello,” she said, drawing up her legs under herself.

“You are very strong,” he said, from under the brim of the hat. “I thought maybe you weren’t going to be all right, but even when you were frozen you weren’t inside. Scared, but strong.”

“Um…thank you.” She considered him, and then felt out with her magic, and frowned. “Cole, right? That’s your name.”

“Yes, that’s what I call me.”

“Cole, what are you?”

He shrugged. “I was murder, then was mercy, then they told me I wasn’t real. But I think I might be real.”

“That’s not very helpful, you realize.”

“I’m being quiet for now,” he said earnestly. “I’ll be there when you get there. I just want to help. I went back, and helped them die, when they were trapped in snow, cold and crying and caught, so they wouldn’t have to be scared all alone.”

Mireille frowned, trying to make sense of this, and finally said, “Why are you here with me, if you’re…a spirit of mercy, or…”

“You don’t need mercy, not much. Compassion, maybe.” He raised his hands between them, a barrier. “You’re made of all kinds of pains, but you use it, you carry it, it makes you angry and you like it. He likes it too, that’s why you feel better with him, even when it hurts a little bit. You keep going because you’re mad and you don’t fall into little bits. Broken and burnt and bloody. Shouldn’t have lived while they died, should have frozen, should have told him how it feels, should have saved them all. You have a lot of shoulds, but you have a lot of dids, too. You saved a lot of them.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Who’s…are you reading my mind?”

“You’re shouting it.” He cocked his head and the brim of his hat flopped along with it. “I want to help, I want to do good. I’ll see you when you get there, you’ll see. I promise. You saved so many of them.”

She blinked, but the chair was empty, and maybe it always had been.

 

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

Skyhold was _large._

And _full_ of spiders.

“These have to be demon spiders,” she grumbled, rubbing her hands over her shoulders as she picked her way through the hall. “They _have_ to be. No spider should be this large.”

Josephine shuddered. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Perhaps we could find some mice to take care of them. Of course, then we’ll have a mouse problem, but a few cats could take care of that…”

“I don’t like where this is going _oh_ _Andraste’s flaming tits –_ ” Mireille jumped back and wiped at the spiderwebs on her face. “Maker, we are having our War Council outside, because I am _not okay with this.”_

“Oh, yes, about that.” Josephine fell into step behind her as they made it through the door to her office. “We may have to put it off again. Leliana has sent out all the ravens she has to our allies for information, and I know the Commander is still preparing for assault in case we were followed. Perhaps you could convince him to sleep at some point, because I’ve had no luck so far.”

“We can just have Leliana slip something in his drink.” She brushed at her sleeves again, scratching at her neck, skin crawling with imaginary spiderwebs. “I’ve settled the mages into the south tower – they should be comfortable there, or at least quiet. I think they’re just happy to be off their feet at this point.”

“Aren’t we all,” the ambassador said with feeling, seating herself behind the makeshift desk. “I know we also have someone repairing the stairs up to the western tower. We were fortunate enough to be able to carry tools with us out of Haven, and support has begun to pour in from our noble allies in Orlais and Ferelden both…we may have to deal with the spiders ourselves, however.”

“I’m thinking fire. I’ll pick a few mages and we’ll try not to torch the whole place.”

 “Please do. But let me know so I can clear the hall first, would you?” Josephine looked at her over her steepled fingers. “Naturally, problems all over Thedas require our attention, now that we have an Inquisitor and have begun to reestablish ourselves. I’ve prepared some dossiers if you’d like to look over them. We’ll likely want to investigate some of these issues very soon, and send scouting parties as well as have you visit. The Empress’s peace talks are far away as yet, but we’ll need to increase our reputation well before we arrive.”

Mireille slapped at a curl that had come loose from her braid, tickling at her neck, and tucked it back in with a shudder. “It never ends, does it?”

“Never. We’ll need to add some lessons in courtly behavior to your schedule. Somehow. And fit you for formal attire.”

She pulled on the best ‘who do you think you’re kidding’ glare she could muster, but Josephine didn’t look particularly impressed. “The lesson starts with ‘please do not make that face again,’ by the way. If we’re going to attend a peace talk, the Inquisition must play the Game as well as any there, or we’ll be crushed. Vivienne has offered to put you in touch with her tailor. You might start considering which of your companions to bring, as well. Please don’t ask Sera, so I won’t have to attempt to explain why there are phalluses drawn all over the walls of Halamshiral.”

“I wasn’t going to, but now that you mention it…”

The ambassador raised a finger. “Don’t even think about it, Inquisitor. Here are your dossiers –” She filled Mireille’s arms with papers. “And some notes about the construction, for your perusal. And a complaint about the spiders, from Dorian, who apparently hates them as much as you do. Oh, yes, and if you could sign this statement – _legibly,_ please – thank you.”

Mireille picked her way back through the bloody spider-infested hall, narrowing her eyes and immolating just a few of them, and managed to get all the way out into the sunlit courtyard without something crawling up her robe. She shifted through the papers in her arms, trotting down the steps.

Red lyrium – and Red Templars – in the Emprise du Lion. Crestwood had Fade rifts and undead and a note from Varric on it that said _Come see me when you get a moment_ in his firmly flowing script. Venatori in the Western Approach, clashing between Orlesian factions in the Graves…

Of course the whole damn world would fall apart as soon as she turned her back on it for two seconds.

She found herself a perch on the battlements, looking out over the snow-frosted valley, and stuffed her nose into a report on the Exalted Plains.

She had finally moved onto the Crestwood report and her fingers had gone numb with cold even through the thick gloves when Varric said, “I didn’t know being Inquisitor required so much paperwork.”

“It’s news to me, too.” She looked up. And up. “Who’s your – I’m sorry, are you the _Champion of Kirkwall?_ ”

The man gave her a sheepish grin through his black beard. “I was.”

Varric leaned on the crate she’d been using as a windbreak. “Not so loud, Freckles, the Seeker’s going to murder me once she finds out. Actually, I don’t think she’ll kill you, so maybe I’m safer up here. But yeah. Ethan Hawke, Mireille Trevelyan.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you were on the run because you started the mage rebellion. Aren’t you supposed to be off breaking Circles?”

Hawke held up his hands, wearing the expression of a man who’s had to explain something several too many times. “Okay, let’s go through this once. Kirkwall’s circle was a horrible place, right? That’s half the reason this whole thing got started anyway, and there’s lots of Circles were like that. Blowing up the Chantry, not my idea. Templars versus mages, not my idea, but I supported the mages because Meredith was genuine two-hundred-proof insane, and yes, I don’t believe in the Circle and I don’t think it’s a good institution, but I didn’t want this to happen.”

“Intent is the most important thing, as we all know,” she said acidly, setting the papers down carefully and drawing herself up, which unfortunately put her at maybe chest-level on the big mage. “I’m sure the dead won’t mind if you didn’t _mean_ to shatter an entire institution and cause violent upheaval around Thedas, of course.”

“Can you honestly tell me your Circle was any different? Weren’t you a little tired of having Templars look at you all funny if you sneezed?”

“Aren’t you an apostate? Have you ever been in a Circle that wasn’t on fire?”

Varric said, “Freckles, maybe this isn’t the best – ”

“Varric?”

“Yes?”

“Kindly shut up.” She glared at him, and then at Hawke. “I hope you have a really good reason for being here, because I’m certainly up for yelling at you all day about the rebellion and your place in it, but I’ll need to clear my schedule.”

Hawke sighed. “I do, actually. I have a contact in the Wardens who was investigating red lyrium, but I’ve lost contact with him in Crestwood, and I’m thinking you might be interested in the information he was supposed to be finding. I’ve also tangled with Corypheus before.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the battlement, adding, “Actually, kind of thought I’d killed that bastard, so this has been a big disappointment. If you’re going to try and take him down for good, I’d love to assist. If you’ll have me.”

She glanced from Hawke to Varric and back again. Varric looked nervous. Actually, so did Hawke, which was surprising for the valiant hero of the mage rebellion and symbol of freedom, and also for a man with biceps the size of cantaloupes.

“All right,” she said, waving a hand. “We’re going to have a conversation about this later,” she added, as he opened his mouth, “but I’m currently just a little more pissed off at Corypheus than I am about the rebellion.”

“Certainly got your priorities in order,” Varric muttered.

She flipped the paper over and pulled a pencil out of one of her pockets. “Tell me what you know.”

 

* * *

  

Night fell cold in Skyhold, and Mireille left the battlements at last shivering through her coat and cloak. She was pretty positive that Varric was hiding the Champion in one of the towers, because they’d vanished two hours ago and she could still see the glimmer of candlelight through the smashed bricks of the northernmost tower. Whether they were hiding from Cassandra or from her…well, that was another question.

Of course she wasn’t interested in Templars looking at her funny every time she sneezed, she told herself, rolling her shoulder experimentally as she trotted down the steps. But they didn’t _all_ do that. Sure, some of them had in Ostwick, but – not after a while. Not after she’d made Enchanter, certainly. Okay, there’d been Derric, but he just had a particularly bad squint and he looked at _everyone_ like that.

The courtyard had quieted down with the dropping of night, but the campfires were still burning, a few scouts on watch nodding to her as she passed with her head somewhere north of the Waking Sea.

The Circle had always been…it had always felt like a safe place. She’d felt more trapped at fancy balls or learning to ride a horse than she ever had in those walls. Once she’d been scared, but even the Knight-Commander had been almost kindly once she’d made enchanter – once she’d earned a reputation as a powerful healer.

Once you’d proven you weren’t one of the troublesome ones, a treacherous thought muttered. Keep your head down, talk back just enough that you’re funny and not threatening, accept what they tell you about your place in the world…

It was a disquieting little thought, and she tried to shake it off and focus on the crunch of frosted grass under her feet.

Across the lawn a lantern was glowing softly on the ramshackle desk at the base of the castle steps, but the commander didn’t seem to notice her approach from the shadows. Cullen rubbed his temples and winced, staring down at the papers scattered in front of him, and the lantern cut deep shadows under his eyes and along his scruffy cheeks – had he shaved at _all_ since Haven? – and Mireille said, “Have you considered sleeping any time this age?”

He jumped a full six inches in the air, a hand on his sword, and she tried very hard not to giggle and didn’t succeed. Cullen glared at her, running a hand through his hair. “There’s far too much to do, and not enough time to do it in if we want to be defensible. We’ve got holes in the damn walls. Did you need something, Herald? Inquisitor?”

Mireille leaned across the desk and examined him for a long moment – bloodshot eyes, the deep bags under them, the way his hands were shaking slightly – until he finally snapped, “What?”

“How much sleep have you been _getting?”_

“I don’t really believe that’s relevant, Inquisitor.”

“Because it looks like maybe three, four hours, to me.” She glared at him. “You’re no good to anyone exhausted, Commander. Go to bed. You can sleep under your desk if you like, although it’s a bit chilly out here.”

“I have to – ”

She rolled her eyes and said, “If you’re not going to listen to me as the Inquisitor, listen to me as a healer, you idiot.”

He opened his mouth, and then shut it.

“Ah, good, you’ve remembered that I actually am qualified to tell you what to do in about five different ways.” Mireille stuffed her hands into her pockets. “Besides, if you stay out here much longer you’re going to freeze, and then you’ll get frostbite, and I’m going to laugh at you when your fingernails fall off.”

He frowned. “That’s…that’s not how frostbite works, is it?”

“You’ll find out in about three hours.”

Cullen rubbed a gloved hand across his face and sighed, beginning to gather up the papers scattered across his desk. “All right, all right. But _only_ because you’re insufferably annoying and you’re probably not going to go away unless I leave my desk.”

“You’re absolutely correct.”

“Sometimes I could swear Andraste made you Herald just to spite me,” he muttered, as they walked up toward the castle.

“I think she infested this place with spiders to spite me.” Mireille paused before she entered the hall, steeling herself, and caught the smirk on Cullen’s face. “What?”

“Are you afraid of spiders, Trevelyan?”

“I don’t like that look on your face, Rutherford,” she said flatly. “That’s the look you get when you think you’ve just gotten one over on me.”

“The Herald of Andraste, scared of spiders.” He chuckled to himself, striding into the main hall with all the courage of a man who’s never had a spider stuffed down his shirt. “Amazing.”

“Listen, any reasonable persoooaahhhh – ” She danced backward and swatted at the web tangled around her arm, winced as her injured shoulder pulled against the fresh scar, and then glared at Cullen, whose shoulders were shaking with the effort of holding in his laughter. “I’m going to find a _giant_ spider and put it in your bunk, see if I don’t.”

He coughed into his hand, trying and failing to hide a grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, that certainly was not humorous in the least.”

“I can’t wait to start combat training again so I can have a reason to punch you.”

“As long as no spiders drop down from the ceiling to surprise you, of course.”

 _Maker’s balls,_ she wanted to wipe the smirk off his face, and she almost did before she realized that there were stragglers walking into the hall who were probably going to wonder why the Inquisitor was attempting to murder her Commander, and instead she said, “We’ll see about that. Good night, Commander.”

“If I hear screaming during the night, shall I just assume you’ve made a new eight-legged friend?”

“Good _night,_ Commander.”

 

* * *

 


	13. Chapter 13

There was, surprisingly, a wide variety of trees in the courtyard. They were also relatively tall, and Mireille had hauled herself up about twelve feet in the air with her eyes pinned on a particular branch when from below she heard, “Inquisitor, are you…climbing a tree?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she said, blowing hair out of her eyes and selecting a new handhold. “Try it sometime, Dorian.”

“No, thank you, I like not being covered in sap and whatever else comes out of trees.”

“Suit yourself.” She hauled herself up a few more feet and ran her hands over the branch she’d been looking at, then swore under her breath. “Maker’s balls, that’s not going to work.”

“Are you climbing this tree for a reason?” Dorian called up. “Or is this just to protest your confinement while you convalesce?”

She started to pick her way down the branches. “Well, it’s that too. I’m making another staff.”

“And this tree…isn’t staff-y enough for you?”

“No good long branches.” Her foot slipped and she managed to catch herself on a branch, banging her elbow hard on a knot, and she swore again, more loudly.

“My _goodness,_ that was creative. If the whole Inquisition thing doesn’t work out, perhaps you could become a poet.”

“Thank you,” she said, dropping out of the tree with a grunt. “You know, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll have to go down the mountain. I think we passed some a forest, oh, three days back toward Haven.”

“Good luck getting your Commander to let you leave.” He brushed a loose bit of bark off his arm from her passage. “I do believe that’s why Sera is so disappointed this morning – something about wanting to put snowmen in the hall?”

“That sounds like her.” Mireille strolled over to the tall yew beside the pine she’d been climbing, considering the trunk. “They’d be more pleasant than our Orlesian guests. Somebody should tell them what it looked like when we first arrived here.”

“Oh, I think they’re charming. The snowmen would be much more…chilly.”

She snorted and raised herself up on tiptoe, eyeing a branch several feet over her head. “Dorian, you’re a big strong man, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so, although it concerns me that you’ve phrased it that way.”

“I just don’t think I can jump that high.”

He glanced up at the tree. “Ah, good, because I thought you were attempting to ask me something else and I was probably going to hurt your feelings.” He knitted his fingers together and she stepped into his hands.

“What did you think I was going to ask, if you’d please ravish me in the courtyard? That’d give our Orlesian guests something to talk about. One, two, three – ” Her fingers caught the branch and she swung up hoisted a leg over it, wobbling only a little. “Ha!”

“As if they don’t have enough to talk about already.”

She glared down at him from the branch, because he was acting far too nonchalant for a man just brushing bark and dirt off his hands. “Now what on earth is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll tell you once you’re on the ground again. You know, I think I see a staff-sized branch about six feet above you.”

Mireille hauled herself up through the needles, her hands sticky with sap.

“You’re almost there.”

“I think your sense of perspective is warped,” she said, reaching the branch, which was about as thick as her leg. “Or you think I have very large hands.”

“It’s possible you should take everything I say with a healthy pinch of salt, yes.”

She clambered up ten or fifteen more feet, and then said, “Aha!” and yanked a hunting knife out of its sheath on her thigh. Sawing through the wood took several sweaty minutes, but finally she had a long yew shaft covered in branches.

“Dorian, you should get out of the way.”

“Why – oh, _vishante kaffas_ ,” he added, as she tossed the branch out and away from the tree.

She slid down the trunk. “And you thought what I said was dirty?” A branch bent unexpectedly under her boot and she dropped about four feet, flailed madly for a handhold, and caught a sharp-edged splinter in her palm. “Andrate’s charred _ass!”_

“Are we competing now?” he asked, when she finally managed to drop to the ground again. “You’ve managed to injure yourself on a tree. Well done. Is that quite painful?”

She scowled at him and examined her palm. “Just a splinter. Ow.”

“That is not a splinter, that is a sapling.”

She sat down with the branch at the foot of the tree and began to pick shreds of bark out of her bloody hand. Dorian returned and handed her a flagon of water, and she said, “Thank you,” and poured most of it onto her palm, gritting her teeth.

“I’d offer to help, but I suspect you’re substantially better at healing than I am.” He sat down on a large stone that might have come from the wall above.

Mireille closed her eyes and let the magic knit her blood vessels back together, scabbed it over enough so she wouldn’t bleed all over the hilt of the borrowed knife, and then pulled out her handkerchief and tore off a long strip. “Would you put a finger on this knot for me?”

He complied, pressing down on the cloth as she tied it off. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a healing like that before. It’s an interesting technique.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s – well, all right, let me back up just a tad. You know there are blood mages in Tevinter. Don’t give me that look, it’s not the same as in Ferelden or the Marches and I’m not telling you you’re a blood mage or some such nonsense. And one certainly sees the occasional abomination in the north, but we’ve mostly accomplished just being a nasty power-hungry prick instead of being possessed by demons all willy-nilly.” Dorian sat back as she tested the knot. “Blood magic’s an unspoken fact in the Imperium. There’s power in blood – in your own, as well as others’, for healing as well as harming. Now _you’re_ reaching into the Fade to do healing, of course, like most mages, but more lightly than I’d expect. Healing’s generally difficult, and requires a lot of power – it’s not that precise an art, and most people seem to just call spirits to help.”

“Well, it’s a small wound, and it’s not fully healed. I try not to do that. The body knows how to heal better than magic does, I just tell it to hurry up about it with with magic and some inside knowledge – I worked with a few surgeons in Kirkwall.” Her fingers were twisted up in the bandage, worrying at the knot, and she stilled them with an effort. “I don’t think you can _accidentally_ use blood magic, can you?”

“Probably not,” he agreed. “Certainly not in a way I’ve heard of. Of course, the common wisdom holds that using your own blood isn’t an issue, it’s that of others that causes problems – although that’s certainly not always true, as we’ve seen. Using your own blood is a bit like – ” He sketched something amorphous in the air with his fingers. “Using your muscles, from what I understand, if one does it properly. Assuming you can use blood magic properly. You can only do as much as you’ve got in you, and some people have more than others. Thus the whole ‘power-hungry prick’ aspect of some magisters – more blood, more power, more unpleasantness.”

She narrowed her eyes and Dorian raised his hands. “Just because I don’t use that particular discipline doesn’t mean I’m not knowledgeable about it.”

The courtyard felt unpleasantly chilly all of a sudden, and Mireille busied herself stripping the twigs and needles off her branch, carving them off into a pile. “I’ve just been burned too many times by blood magic, I suppose. Sometimes literally. Because they turn into rage abominations and try to melt me. I wouldn’t say I’m fond of the stuff.”

“Believe me, I know the feeling.”

When she glanced up, his hands were pressed together so hard his brown knuckles were turning white, and she said, “What were you going to tell me earlier?”

“Oh, yes, I believe I was saying that your flirting skills leave something to be desired.” The vaguely haunted look on his face passed briefly through relief before arriving at his more usual friendly mockery.

She pointed a leafy twig at him. “Perhaps I just don’t want to flirt with you, have you considered that?”

“Nonsense, who wouldn’t want to flirt with me?” He sat back and gestured across his chin dramatically. “I am devastatingly gorgeous.”

Mireille snorted. Dorian leaned forward, his chin on his hand, blinking innocently at her, and she added, “I don’t like that look you’re giving me.”

“No, no, I understand, I’m not your type, despite being terrific in every way. Buttoned-up Chantry boys, perhaps? Something about that stern chiseled jawline and all that repression…”

She stared at him for a solid ten seconds and then said coolly, “You know, the last person who insinuated something like that really regretted it.”

“Oh, you’re very frightening, especially with that look on your face. My goodness, do you practice that glare in the mirror every day? I love it.”

“I can practice it on you.” She gave him a sharp thin smile.

“All right, I’m beginning to see why everyone’s afraid of you, _arachidi._ You’re plenty terrifying, oh do _please_ stop making that face. Go make faces at the Commander, I’m sure he’s more than up to scowling at you all day.”

“That would get very tiring,” she said without thinking, and Dorian grinned at her. “Oh, shove it, you are ridiculous. And he can shove it too, I’m sure he’s used to it with that stick up his ass.”

“So complimentary! I am absolutely telling him you said that next time we play chess.”

“I’ve already told him, I don’t think it did much good.” She frowned. “You play chess with Cullen?”

“Yes, I was a bit tired of losing at Diamondback and he’s the only one of you louts who’s any good at the game anyway.” He gave her an innocent smile under his mustache. “I do believe you’re changing the subject, Inquisitor.”

“I think you’re just mad because I won the shirt off your back _once.”_ She went back over the nubs of branches, carving off tiny flakes of wood to smooth it down, digging the narrow blade under the bark.

“Three times, if you recall, and if one could invent strip chess, I would win it right back.” He paused. “Actually, I wonder if I could invent strip chess. Perhaps based on pieces taken? But who wears sixteen pieces of clothing at all times? The king would have to be knickers, no question…”

Mireille paused too, because a mental image consisting mostly of flickering torchlight on broad bare shoulders and scruffy cheekbones behind a chessboard had presented itself for her inspection, and she shoved it down with as much mental strength as she could muster.

Dorian was _grinning_ at her again, and she threw a branch at him.

He just snickered and stood up. “If I manage to invent it, I’ll write up the rules for you. Don’t fall out of any more trees, would you kindly? Perhaps Master Tethras will be more inclined to assist me in this important scholarly work.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, and he strolled off muttering under his breath about pawns and socks.

With a sigh, she leaned back and took a moment to thank the tree, because there’s a time and a place for politeness. She began to strip the bark from the shaft again in short smooth cuts. While most definitely not thinking about any muscles belonging to anyone _whatsoever._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Arachidi_ is Italian for peanut. Tevene sounds most like Latin-based languages, I think, so that's what I went with for a diminutive. (Good thing Mireille doesn't speak Tevene.)


	14. Chapter 14

 

“What on earth are you doing?”

Mireille stood up and wiped sweat off her face. “You know, that’s the second time today I’ve been asked that question and it is really quite obvious what the answer is.”

Cullen frowned up at her from the floor below. “Inquisitor, you’re standing in my bedroom, you’re covered in soot, and you’re wearing an apron. I’m really not sure what you expect me to guess from this situation.”

“I would not call this a bedroom, it’s more of a loft. There’s a hole in your ceiling, by the way.” She aimed the borrowed staff at the stone ceiling and concentrated, and a wash of flame obliterated the cobwebs in the corner, neat as you please.

“I’m aware of that.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You could have warned me that the Great Spider Reckoning would be proceeding to my office next. Or perhaps started it _before_ I moved in.”

“Did I not?” Fire blossomed over the other corner and she swept it across the stones, avoiding the dangling tree branch. “I am _sure_ I sent you a note. At some point.”

“You know, I’m getting the feeling that you aren’t content with convalescing for another week.”

“Whatever would give you that idea?” she said absently, strolling across the room to examine the far corner of the ceiling.

Mireille heard him sigh again, and then she squeaked in alarm as a _large_ spider rushed out of the corner, backing away and taking aim with the staff.

Twenty minutes later she heard the door close and peeked down at the floor below, but Cullen was still at his desk, rubbing his temples. When she slid down the ladder and turned around, though, he was poring over a report. “You appear to have missed your calling as an exterminator, Inquisitor.”

“If I have to spend any amount of time in here, it’s going to be spider-free.” She tucked a loose curl back into her kerchief. “Although you’ve got most of a tree in your loft, so that presents a problem.”

“I’m perfectly happy with that tree, thank you. Don’t even think about trying to fix my ceiling,” he added, when she glanced up at the loft. “Maker’s breath, we really have to find something to occupy your time, because somehow you’ve managed to be _bored_ despite the ludicrous amount of work to be done around Skyhold.”

“I’m getting plenty done.” She dusted her hands off on the apron she’d borrowed from the cook. “You’ve got no spiders in your office, if you’ll note.”

“Yes, I’m also told you’ve been climbing trees in addition to your usual time spent training apprentices, working with the healers, studying reports...” He glanced at the papers across his desk. “You wouldn’t be the reason Dorian was talking about _strip_ chess, would you?”

“What an absolutely ridiculous notion,” she snapped, eyes suddenly fixed on the ceiling. “Oh, I missed one.”

Cullen stood up, rubbing his temple again, and pulled his gloves off, then unbuckled one of his bracers.

Halfway up the ladder, Mireille _almost_ fell off in shock.

He glanced up at her and then realization dawned in his eyes and he raised his hands, his face red and horrified. “Oh, Maker, absolutely _not._ I just – if you’re going to be bothering me, the least you can do is something productive. Combat training. Test your shoulder. Yes?”

“Well, I’ve got to take care of this spiderweb first,” she said, fixing her eyes on the wooden rungs, so he couldn’t see how pink her cheeks were getting.

“I hate to inform you, Inquisitor, but I suspect they’ll just come back in a week regardless.” He unbuckled his ridiculous coat, and she pointedly did _not_ watch as she clambered up just high enough to reach the spiders with a targeted burst of flame.

“The Great Spider Reckoning may have to become a weekly event, then,” she muttered, dropping back to the ground.

He’d managed to get his breastplate off while she was dealing with spiders, and nodded to the door. “You could just avoid my office. Think of the peace and quiet I’d have.”

“Regrettably, I have to interact with you on occasion, Commander.” She strolled out under his arm and had to suppress a shiver as the chill wind hit her full force.

They passed through the ruined central tower and into the northernmost, which had become a repository for just about anything they couldn’t find a space for. Mireille glanced up at the rafters, but if Hawke was up there, he was being very quiet. Or possibly frozen to death, given the chill in the room.

“If you’re looking for the Champion, I believe they’ve set up a space for him somewhere in the undercroft,” Cullen said, lifting a crate onto his shoulder. “Actually, I’m not supposed to tell you where he is. Varric seemed concerned you’d scare him off again.”

“I might.” She nudged a small box of what looked like drapes into the corner. “You’re awfully calm about having the face of the mage rebellion in Skyhold, Commander.”

He shrugged. “Hawke has always been – good at traveling quietly. Surprisingly good, actually, if half the tales of his exploits are true.”

“That wasn’t really an answer.”

“You didn’t actually ask a question.” He set down his crate with a thump.

Mireille huffed. It was a good-quality huff, nice and exasperated, and it made Cullen chuckle. “He’s not a bad man, Inquisitor. You certainly associate with more questionable company on a regular basis. Tevinter mages, elven apostates, Qunari mercenaries…”

“Generally my company doesn’t make a habit of breaking Circles and inciting riots,” she grumbled, pushing a larger box across the floor. Or trying to. Her healing shoulder twinged as she put it to the crate and she gritted her teeth and switched arms.

“Ah, it’s personal.” He leaned over and helped her push, and she glared at him. “You know, I don’t believe Hawke did what he did _just_ to spite you, Trevelyan.”

She huffed again, for good measure, and pushed on the crate until it shuddered over the stone floor and her shoulder complained. “I’m surprised you’re defending him, Templar.”

“Are you?” He peered into the crate and pulled out what looked like the haft of a spear, headless and slightly splintered. “Hawke made me realize…well, that I’d been a damn fool, and that I could help put things right again. I may not agree with what he’s doing now, or with the company he keeps, but I owe him a debt or two. I suspect you’d like each other eventually. You’re both so prone to argument.”

Mireille stared at him until he rolled his eyes. “Is it really so difficult to believe I’d stand by him? I thought you were all for Templars and mages working together, Senior Enchanter.”

“I haven’t exactly met many who want to work together recently,” she said, pulling off her apron and folding it up on a box. “Or that many who want to move past being mages and Templars at all. It’s all abuse of power and blood magic and broken Circles – ”

Cullen leaned on the spear haft and gave her a look that said, eloquently, that she’d just called the kettle black, and she scowled at him and picked up her staff. “All right, I’m going to start hitting you now.”

“You can certainly try. Start slowly, it’s been a while,” he said, tapping the wood against the floor. Of course, she had to take that as a challenge, and when she snapped her borrowed staff forward and wrenched her bad shoulder, he blocked it easily and added, “That’s why I said slowly. Are you all right?”

She rubbed at her shoulder, gritting her teeth, but it wasn’t bleeding at least. “Yes, I’m fine, I get it.”

“You can switch feet, if you’d rather bring power from your good side. Or you can try to protect it and fight defensively.” He shifted as she switched her feet, frowning, and then blocked again as she struck at his face. “There you go. Slow down if you need to. Of course, we could ask Hawke to train with you.”

“Yes, a wonderful idea,” she snapped, driving forward, high, low, her tired muscles warming to the exercise. “We can see how long it takes for us to level Skyhold, if you want to set that up.”

He struck and she brought up the wrong hand, not used to the reversed stance yet, and the spear haft tapped against the side of her neck. “We’ve barely recovered from our _first_ trip through the Frostbacks, Inquisitor. I’d prefer not to try it again with winter approaching, if you don’t mind.”

She scowled and backed away, resettling the staff in her hands. Looking for an opening. Circling around –

His foot shifted over the floor, catching on an uneven stone as he moved, and she closed in on that side – struck high, drove the staff down behind his knee and then _up_ and he fell backward and a sharp shock of pain ran through her shoulder. Her staff clattered to the floor, and so did Cullen.

“Well done,” he said, pulling himself up again. “Follow it up next time, but that was very well executed.”

“Aaargh,” she managed.

“Have I said ‘slow down’ enough times yet?”

Mireille glared up at him, her hands braced on her knees, and he just stepped back and leaned against one of the large crates. Her shoulder was _throbbing,_ and finally she managed to swallow and straighten up, a hand pressed against the wound. She could feel the stiff scar through her shirt. If she just – but it had taken just about all the healing she could throw at it, and putting more in wouldn’t help. She didn’t know enough about scar tissue to know how to make it flexible again. Just time.

Eventually she felt like she could breathe again and Cullen said, quietly, “We can pick this up another time, Mireille.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, all of Thedas just shat the bed. Time is not a luxury we have.” She rolled her shoulders, winced, and settled the staff back across her forearms.

He stepped up to meet her in the center of the room again. There was – something she couldn’t parse in his face, his eyes locked with hers. “Thedas has survived this long on its own, and it’ll survive you taking the time to recover.”

“I’m not sure about that,” she said, striking out, the clack of wood on wood echoing off the stones. “Red lyrium, Fade rifts, demons – and let’s not forget the Venatori, and the regular Templars and mages still fighting – ”

The haft crashed down an inch from her knuckles, and she had to shift back and away as he came forward. “It’s only been two weeks, Inquisitor.”

“During which the world has gone to shit.”

“During which you _almost died,”_ Cullen snapped, with so much force that she actually paused to stare at him, and then he knocked her staff out of her hands and she had to skitter backwards from the following strike.

Mireille ducked around behind a crate, jumped a broken barrel, and didn’t spot him as she came around – how the _shit_ had he hidden behind half a crate? – and suddenly his arm was around her neck, and he’d grabbed her left arm and twisted it up by the wrist behind her.

Of course, she bit him.

His hold on her neck loosened just enough that she could duck down and forward, and she managed to wrangle her left hand around his wrist as she turned and _wrenched_ right around and dropped him on the floor with a thump. The fact that she immediately hit the floor after, as his leg came around and swept her feet, was really just insulting.

Cullen sat up, rubbing his arm. “Well, that’s certainly one way to get out of a chokehold. If whoever’s choking you isn’t wearing bracers, at least.”

“So, approximately no one that I’ve had to tangle with in the last month.” She laid her head back on the floor and stared up at the rafters. There were definitely holes in the ceiling – she could see stars through the gaps in the boards. One more thing to fix.

 “The principle is sound. And you’re improving steadily.”

“High praise, Commander.” She closed her eyes. “If a Red Templar Silences me, I’ll let them know you thought so before I get killed.”

Cloth rasped across stone, and when Mireille peeked at him he was leaning back against a box with a hand to his head, looking at her. “I won’t let that happen.”

She huffed out a sharp laugh, like a dropped knife. “Unless you’re planning to follow me around and glare at anyone who tries to stab me, I don’t think you’ll have much say in it.”

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose again. The tower’s quiet closed in, hungry and pressing.

After a long few moments she finally sat up and said, “Are you all right?”

Cullen opened an eye in surprise and then rubbed a hand over his face. “Fine. It’s – been a long day, that’s all. Also, you’ve just thrown me to the ground twice in the past few minutes.”

“Well, you did ask me to.” She stood and extended a hand.

He took it and pulled himself to his feet, which meant she had to brace herself carefully so she wouldn’t fall over, because he was a lot heavier than she was. “I don’t know if I asked for that specifically, Inquisitor.”

His palm was rough-callused and _warm_ against hers, and Mireille pulled her hand back, stepped away. “Then you probably shouldn’t have taught me to throw you. This is your fault.” She retrieved the borrowed staff from the floor and turned to face him only once there was a reasonable distance between them.

“I certainly didn’t teach you to bite your way out of a chokehold,” he said, picking up the spear haft.

“I stand by that. It was effective.”

“Effective, but not exactly pleasant.”

“Fighting isn’t supposed to be _pleasant,”_ she pointed out. “It’s supposed to be – well, effective.”

He gave her a stern look, but there was some vague amusement around the corners of his eyes. “Who’s teaching whom, here?”

“Well – ” Her witty retort disappeared into a yelp as Cullen stepped forward and rapped the back of her knee with the end of the haft, making her stumble.

“Pay attention,” he said, and there was a wicked little grin at the corner of his mouth. Mireille narrowed her eyes and brought the staff around and up, cracking across the haft, and drove him back – across the room – and ignored her shoulder’s protest. She’d show _him_ how well she’d paid attention –

 

* * *

 

She dreamed that night of _cold,_ bitter burning cold, and warm hands clasped around her fingers, lifting her out of a frigid wet sea into the arms of a rust-orange sunrise.

She was pinned to the earth by the shoulder, she was on a pyre waiting to be burnt to ash, she was grasping at rough-callused fingers and dangling over a pit of broken stone, and Kirkwall’s Champion laughed at her and said, “They were already broken. What difference would you make?” and the warm brown eyes above her closed and she _fell_ –

When she woke in a cold sweat the fire had burned low, and the room was freezing even under five blankets. For a moment her half-awake eyes twisted the shadows into something threatening and the sharp tin taste of panic cut across her tongue – and she was halfway out of bed with staff in hand before she realized she’d been about to electrocute her dresser.

Mireille paused, her chest heaving, stocking feet planted in a block of silver moonlight.

She prodded the dresser, in case it had changed its mind about being a demon, and let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

The moons were both nearly full tonight. It was plenty of light to stoke the fire by. She built it up high and crackling, coaxed it with magic to a slow cozy burn, and sat down in front of it, rubbing her fingers. The frostbite blisters had mostly healed, but the skin was still darkly mottled and she could barely feel the heat of the fire on her fingertips. 

“Andraste’s ass, I really should not be alive,” she murmured, drawing her knees up under her thick nightdress.

Andraste didn’t answer. But then, perhaps she took offense at repeated mentions of her ass. Who wouldn’t?

“Everyone’s looking to me for answers, you know.” Mireille tucked her hands into her sleeves to warm them, gripping her elbows tightly. “They think I’m your Herald, that you saved me, and they want answers and I don’t have them. You picked a mage, for fuck’s sake. You picked a healer who can’t even light someone on fire properly, who barely left the Circle until I had to…and I don’t even _know_ what I think about the Circles and the Templars anymore. Couldn’t you have chosen someone a little better qualified?”

The fire popped, and she flinched.

Of course, Andraste had done it, hadn’t she? Just walked into Tevinter with an Exalted March at her back, because she’d believed. Because she’d known she was right. Well, and then she’d been betrayed by her husband and burned at the stake, so perhaps that wasn’t the best model to follow.

“It must be nice to have that kind of faith _,”_ she muttered into her crossed arms.

The fire kept burning, heedless of the existential crisis in her head. A soft breeze whistled past the windows. The moons kept shining, because moons don’t need faith to keep turning in the sky. They just go on shining. Even over the end of the world.

It was almost comforting, to be so small.

Eventually, Mireille wiped her eyes on her sleeve and climbed back into bed. She’d flipped the sheets back in her rush to get out and defend herself against nothing, and they were ice cold again.

She burrowed deep under the blankets, curled up in a ball, and tried not to think any more.

Minds are hard to stop, though, and tend to run in circles. Especially on dark cold nights when the bed feels far too large. The Ostwick Circle had never been big on comfort, and the small bunks had always been a challenge to navigate if one wanted to do something other than sleep in them. That was probably the point, actually. At least she’d never been too tall for them like some of her friends – a little bunk was just the right size for her.

A sleepy thought wondered, as the covers slowly warmed around her feet, about how much cozier it’d be with another body in this stupidly large bed. What else good could a mattress this size be? It’d feel less – hopelessly alone, with a solid presence beside her, warm and inviting –

“That is both juvenile and stupid,” she groaned into the coverlet. “Shut up, Mireille.”

She thought very fiercely about counting sheep, and as she drifted back toward sleep, about a warm rough palm pressed against hers.

 

* * *

 


	15. Chapter 15

Mireille turned the little metal tokens in her hand and tapped one on the surface of the War Table. “All right. So first, the Graves. Find the red lyrium, support this Fairbanks, settle a few conflicts.”

“Then the Emprise,” Leliana said, placing another token on the map. “More Red Templars. You can return through Skyhold and then head to Crestwood to meet with Hawke’s contact…and then back in time for Halamshiral.”

“From here, we can work on any visits with local nobility or important dignitaries.” Josephine shuffled through her papers. “I’ll prepare you a list.”

“The scouts have already moved in ahead,” Cullen said, tapping at a stack of reports. “They’re working on stabilizing the Emprise already, and providing low-level support to the Graves. We’re hopeful that our soldiers will be able to keep the…legions of undead down in Crestwood and maintain the region’s stability in the time it’ll take you to get there. I believe that’s an exaggeration, I can’t imagine there’s more than a few companies’ worth of undead there.”

“Well, that’s all right then,” Mireille muttered, and Josephine shot her a glance that said very clearly that sarcasm might not befit a divine Herald, so she ignored it. “All right. When can we be ready to move? I can take – let’s see – Cassandra and Bull and Sera, I think, and we’ll make good time through the mountains even on foot.”

“We have a fresh rotation of scouts moving out in two days that would be happy to travel with you,” Leliana said. She palmed a token between her fingers and tossed it into the air in a flash of silver. “Regular reports would be appreciated. It should only take a day or two for a raven to make the trip from here to the Graves.”

“I can do that.” Mireille leaned forward, staring at the map, as Josephine asked a question.

She rolled her shoulder a few times. The muscle was healing well – she hadn’t needed to dampen the pain at all this morning, although it twinged in protest when she swung her right arm too far back. Her left-handed strikes were getting better, too. And the Graves would be a good place to look for new wood for staves, given how quickly she was going through them…

She was mentally calculating how much bruise balm she might need for a trip this long when Josephine added, “The Knight-Enchanter will go with you as well. The dancing instructor will _not,_ so we’ll have to schedule you several lessons when you return.”

Mireille raised an eyebrow just enough to hopefully communicate the maximum amount of confused scorn possible. It didn’t seem to do much against Josephine’s brisk manner. “Non-negotiable, Inquisitor. I just hope you are a quick study.”

“It can’t be any more difficult than, oh, anything else I’ve had to do in the last few months.” She set her last token down on the table. “If that’s the whole of our plan, then, I’m heading down to the apothecary. We could use more supplies and potions to bring along.”

“I’m sure the scouts will appreciate it.” Leliana said, and as Mireille turned to leave she saw Cullen lean in and mutter something to the spymaster, so of course she tugged on her earlobe to improve her hearing as she trotted toward the door.

“…be all right? It hasn’t been very long since…”

“Commander, if you haven’t been able to convince her to stay home and recover before now, you certainly won’t be able to do so at this point.” Leliana’s voice was rich with amusement. “Besides, didn’t you just tell me how much she’s improved in combat?”

“I suppose.” In contrast, Cullen sounded…almost worried. “I just – ”

“I suspect that ability will come in very handy at Halamshiral,” Josephine said beside her, as she pushed the door open. “Unless someone speaks next to you, of course.”

Mireille winced, tugging on her earlobe again and shaking her head. “It’s come in useful on occasion.”

“We all worry for you a bit, Inquisitor.” A chill wind blew through the open hallway, and Josephine shivered. “Things still feel rather grim. Haven looms large.”

“And I almost died, yes, I’m hearing that a lot.” Mireille sighed. “And plenty of others _did_ die. I’d really like to avoid that happening again.”

“I can’t imagine what it’s like,” Josephine continued, holding open the door into her warmer office. “After the Conclave…I’m sorry.”

Mireille shrugged and kept her face neutral with an effort. “Me too. Which is why I’d like to get out and do something about it. I’m a bit tired of convalescing.”

Josephine held up a finger. “I _did_ receive a message recently that you might like to see, actually, that reminds me.” She rummaged around her desk, which looked like an inattentive librarian had organized it and fallen asleep halfway through, and handed over a folded letter stamped with what looked an awful lot like a Templar seal. “From Kirkwall.”

“From Kirkwall?” Mireille said, and unfolded it. It was, indeed, a message. Written in an oddly familiar round hand. All the i’s were dotted with little circles. She knew that hand –

Commander, it read,

      _We cannot help Kirkwall any more than we have. The city is as stable as it can be with an unwilling Viscount, and our presence is no longer welcome here – the mage rebellion was too close and too recent, and emotions still run high. While we have, we hope, rooted out the Red Templars as well as the blood mages nesting here, my men and I are happy to assist with your efforts at Hasmal._

_Knight-Corporal Varren has requested to remain in Kirkwall as a member of the Guard and will keep an eye on things here. The rest of us will leave immediately for Hasmal and secure passage for the mages there. We will keep you informed as to our progress south._

_Please give my regards to the Inquisitor, and congratulate her on her new title. We were friends once. I hope she is well._

_Knight-Cpt Brynn Ashton._

Mireille ran a hand through her hair and said, in a faraway voice, “I thought she was dead.”

Josephine was watching her, hands clasped together. “It appears this is Cullen’s friend in Kirkwall – apparently they worked together extensively after the rebellion? He’s vouched for her competence. Barring any problems or obstacles, they may be here within a month or so.”

“She’s going to _murder_ me.” She leaned back against the desk, her mouth twitching into a grin in spite of herself. “I told her I wasn’t going to do anything else stupid, and now look at me, leading an Inquisition.”

“Well, at least she missed you right after Haven.” Josephine sat down with a relieved smile. “She was in Ostwick’s Circle, then?”

“Yes. She saved my life, but I saved hers, so I think we’re even at this point.”

“Then we will be doubly glad to have her join us.”

Mireille turned the letter over a few times in her hands, and then placed it back on the desk. “Thank you, Josie,” she said, and meant it.

“Of course.” The ambassador smiled up at her.

The Grand Hall – or was it the Great Hall? – the Big-Ass Hall had been vetoed immediately, although Sera still called it that – was full of people even this early in the morning. Mireille drifted through them and considered cloaking herself in invisibility. Eyes, murmurs, heads all followed her passage, and she didn’t need magically sharpened hearing to catch the current of awe that went through the sparse crowd.

Brynn would come and walk behind her, like she’d always done. It would be easier to deal with, with her solid presence there.

Brynn was –

Well, they’d been best friends, in the Circle. She could still remember the stupid faces Brynn made during her Harrowing as soon as the First Enchanter’s back was turned. She’d been so scared and so determined not to show it, and when she’d entered the Fade she’d beaten the demons back without even flinching, remembering stupid grins and a friend where she didn’t expect one. They weren’t _supposed_ to be friends, but – when you are young and alone and the girl in plate armor is just as lonely and scared as the girl in too-big robes, these things happen, don’t they? She’d been…steady, and made Mireille steadier, too.

Maybe someday they would have been First Enchanter and Knight-Commander, if things had gone differently.

She’d left when they reached Kirkwall – promising to help mages from the top down, by being a Templar in a city that desperately needed an authority to hold it together. Mireille had taken her now-apostates to Lowtown, to help the refugees and maybe eventually to buy passage south, and Brynn had gone to the Gallows and vanished into the Order’s grasp again. But her little spot in Lowtown went undisturbed, at least by Templars. And when the little cabal of blood mages attacked the Gallows and she’d heard them crowing about killing a redheaded Knight-Captain in the tavern…

Mireille stepped out into the glare of the sun and shook herself, throwing off the chill.

“A light in the lonely dark, made it not so lonely. Bloody hands in the light, bloody knives in the lonely dark, to make justice happen right. You’re sad,” Cole said, behind her.

She jumped a good foot in the air at the sudden voice and turned to face him, pressing a hand to her chest. “Maker, we really have to teach you not to sneak up on people.”

The boy looked at her without the slightest hint of understanding and said, “Forbidden, friends, finally someone who understands. You’re scared she’s changed. Years taking tolls, toils, trust…”

“Everyone changes, Cole.”

“That’s true, or is it? She changes, you change. Even the earth changes.” He looked over the wall, down into the yard. “If she changed, would it be bad?”

“Not necessarily,” Mireille said, starting down the stairs. “Sometimes you have to.”

“Oh. Maybe you’ve changed too much for her, maybe your hands are too dirty to wash clean. But you had to,” he added. “It’s not your fault, you did it for her, because she was good. Shiny and bright when you were weary, calm when you champed to be free. She was a reason.”

“A reason for what?”

“Staying,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Being. Loving Circles, even broken. Loving Templars, even broken.”

She stared at him, and he sighed. “That wasn’t very helpful.”

Gingerly, Mireille patted the boy on the shoulder. He certainly seemed solid enough for a cryptic spirit. “It wasn’t hurtful, though. Don’t make me forget it or anything, I’ll think about it some more. Thanks, Cole.”

He smiled at her, all crooked teeth and bright earnest joy, and then dropped off the stairs and vanished, leaving her in the warm sunlight.

 

* * *

 

Hawke set out with them, which she hadn’t expected.

Hawke _got along_ with people. That was even more surprising. They’d loaned him a horse and he rode next to Sera and Bull for a while, trading increasingly raunchy jokes, and Mireille had to stifle giggles a few times when their voices got loud enough to overhear. Then she kicked herself for giggling. Then she wondered if it was normal not to be able to feel her toes.

Cassandra eventually caught up with her, spurring the big black warhorse up to join her smaller brown forder. She said darkly, “That man has always been a terrible influence. The pack of them are thick as thieves.”

“And you wanted him for Inquisitor.”

She huffed, her breath white and misty in the chill mountain air. “Just because he has a terrible sense of humor does not mean I do not think…well, somewhat well of him. He has done good things. Despite his choice of company.”

Mireille scoffed, quietly, but Cassandra missed _nothing._ It was not necessarily a positive quality. “I am surprised you don’t feel the same, Inquisitor.”

“People keep saying that to me,” she grumbled. “Not all of us mages like each other, you know.”

“You know, I thought he was the reason for the rebellion, once.” Cassandra paused to frown at herself, and spoke carefully when she started again. “The truth about Hawke has been muddied, I think, by time and by distance. He is many things, and a symbol of mage freedom is one of them, but he is also…heroic, selfless. A good man of valiant deeds.”

Mireille raised her eyebrows, and Cassandra, to her utter delight, blushed.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped, as Mireille grinned at her. “I am simply stating the facts. Nothing more.”

“He’s an apostate, that doesn’t bother you?”

“It is a _moot point,”_ Cassandra said hotly. Her entire face was red now. “I am not _interested_ in that sort of thing, and he is – involved. Assuming Varric has told the truth about that as well.”

“Cassandra, I’ve seen the books you read. You’re most definitely a _little_ interested in that sort of thing.”

The Seeker glared at her. “I have not forgiven you for telling Varric about that, Inquisitor, and I will not apologize for enjoying a bit of frivolity in my life.”

Mireille raised her hands. “I didn’t say I didn’t _approve._ They’re very fun to read.”

“I believe you’re still making fun of me.”

“Only out of friendship.”

Cassandra did not appear to be impressed, and there were still two spots of color high on her sharp cheekbones. “I find your idea of friendship somewhat disturbing.”

“Nonsense, this is how everyone becomes friends, by ribbing each other until someone gives up.” She gave Cassandra a big mischievous grin and was rewarded with an amused snort. “Does that mean the Tale of the Champion is wrong, then?”

“Incomplete would be a better word, perhaps. It is somewhat factual, somewhat embellished, and glosses over a few items. Hawke’s involvement with Corypheus, for example.”

“Seems an important point to include.”

Cassandra nodded. “The rumor mills of Kirkwall have clouded the story, and Varric’s book is not sufficiently clear on the aftermath of the battle between mages and Templars. I think he may regret that now, in his rush to get the story to the public. Hawke’s role was more that of the rational head between two warring factions, both of which went much too far to defend themselves from each other…but in the end the Knight-Commander was truly the one to blame for the escalation, I believe.”

Mireille guided her horse around a fallen rock, chewing on her lip.

“The truth is always more complex than one wishes,” Cassandra said, and there were years of weight behind that particular sentence.

“I’ve heard tales of the heroes of the rebellion, breaking Circles around the Marches.” She bit too hard on her lip and tasted blood. “It was – why my Circle fell so early, I think. Everyone was scared, no one was thinking…”

When she looked up at Cassandra again the Seeker was giving her a look that looked remarkably like understanding. She nudged her horse and drifted close enough to grip Mireille by the elbow, firm and friendly. “Few do, when the world seems to fall apart around them. I am glad you made it out of Kirkwall safely despite that.”

Mireille smiled at her. “Look at you, experiencing this strange emotion called friendship.”

The Seeker blushed again, but not quite as fiercely, and she was even smiling. “This does _not_ mean you can – rib me, or whatever you want to call it, about Hawke.”

“What about Hawke?”

“We are having a _moment,_ ser,” Mireille said, rolling her eyes at the big man. He’d been awfully quiet riding up to them. She had a feeling that had been intentional. “If you come back in a few minutes, I’m sure I could work up a good dressing-down.”

“Kindly start no avalanches this time,” Cassandra said. She was still blushing, and nodded to Mireille, clearly pretending she had no idea what her cheeks were doing. “Inquisitor, if you need me, I believe I’ll be up in the fore.”

Mireille nodded. “And – thank you, Seeker.”

Cassandra gave her a grateful glance, and then big black warhorse trotted forward and Hawke’s dapple grey took its place. “You know, I love when people talk about me. They say the most interesting things.”

“Don’t they?” she said absently. “They say some interesting things about me, too, when they don’t think I’m listening. I did hear that joke about the healer and the nobleman earlier. Hilarious.”

Hawke grinned at her, entirely unashamed. “I was hoping you would. You know, I do feel like we got off on the wrong foot. Do you usually introduce yourself by yelling at people?”

“Yes, but I do seem to be meeting a lot of people I want to yell at.”

“Ah, here I thought we were done with all that.”

Mireille gave him a Look. It was a good one, too, she knew for a fact it was a beautifully unimpressed stare that could send even a well-spoken enchanter into stammering apology, and she was a little disappointed that it seemed to roll right off him. “You _are_ a Senior Enchanter. Never met a high-ranking mage that didn’t make that face.”

“Met a lot of them while you and your friends were terrorizing the countryside, did you?” she snapped, as did her patience. Probably she was being uncharitable, but the cold air was making her shoulder throb and she couldn’t feel her toes, as if that were much of an excuse.

Hawke rubbed his hands together. “Ooh, I’ve got a good one for this. What was it…”

“Stuff it where the sun doesn’t shine, Champion. You and your friends got a lot of people killed.” Oh, she was _definitely_ being uncharitable now.

The little self-assured grin disappeared, and without it the Champion of Kirkwall looked substantially more menacing. No wonder they told dark stories about him. “Freedom’s not always free, Inquisitor. Are your hands so clean? How many mages did you kill in the Hinterlands?”

“I wouldn’t have had to if _someone_ hadn’t blown up the Chantry and turned everything on its ass.” Her fingers were tightly knotted in the horse’s reins, tangled up in memory.

“We have covered that it wasn’t my idea, haven’t we?”

“But you support it, don’t you? Last I heard, the legendary Hawke was still wandering around with a terrorist, shattering the status quo or whatever the Anders Manifesto calls it – ”

Hawke spurred the horse and the grey swung right in front of her, so abruptly that her big forder snorted and danced back a few steps. There was a deep snarl in his voice when he spoke. “Don’t even say his name. You weren’t there and you don’t know. Don’t talk about him like you know who he is.”

Mireille glared right back at him, but she managed to bite her tongue before something cutting came out. Partly because she wasn’t at all confident she could beat him in a fight. He had a _lot_ of muscle for a battlemage. And Cassandra had vouched for him, which counted for quite a bit…and so had Cullen, come to think of it. Hawke was also still glaring at her, and she took a deep breath of the frigid air and tried to rein in her temper a little. “I’m sorry.”

His black eyes searched her face, still furious, and she gazed back at him as coolly as she could. There were sparks dancing across the staff strapped to his saddle.

Finally he huffed a dark laugh and nudged the grey back into a walk. “You are, aren’t you? Well, all right then.”

There was a long chilly pause, as Mireille tried to absorb this reaction. A few snowflakes started to drift down from the pale sky. Hawke appeared to be paying her no attention, and she saw him stick out his tongue to catch one. It’s hard to be truly scared of a man who likes to eat snowflakes.

Eventually she said, “What _is_ he like? I only know what I’ve heard.”

He looked up sharply at her, and she added, “Well, _you_ certainly haven’t lived up to your nasty reputation, you just tell bad jokes a lot. And I suppose he probably isn’t, you know, always covered in blood and eight feet tall with a mouth full of fangs.”

“Do they really say that?” Hawke snorted. “I’ll have to let him know.”

“They also say he can turn into a cat or a bird and spy on Circles, watching the Templars and whispering to mages about freedom and blood magic. The tales got pretty tall before they hit Ostwick.” Probably best not to mention how believable they’d been at the time, though. She could still remember the pitiful meows of Ostwick’s mousers.

“He _has_ a cat. I can’t say I’ve ever seen him turn into one.” His hard-lined face had softened a little, and to her amazement his brown cheeks were going slightly pink. “He’s – he cares about people, about _everyone._ I had to fish him out of the harbor once when he saw someone throw a puppy off the dock. I’ve never seen a man so determined to help people.”

Mireille bit down on the sharp question, but Hawke glanced up at her and shrugged. “There are all kinds of ways to help, Inquisitor. Not all of them are _nice._ Did you really take up as a healer in Lowtown? I do try to keep up to date with things back home while I’m off breaking Circles and terrorizing the countryside,” he added, when she frowned at him.

“I had fifteen apprentices and three enchanters with me. There was no better option for a pack of mages fresh out of a Circle, not with everything so heated.” She said it calmly, simply, balanced somewhere between old anger and new.

“Oh? You could have left, you know. Certainly enough people did after the rebellion.”

She shook her head. “No money. Circle mages don’t need it, and we barely left Ostwick with our skins, much less gold. The enchanters took a few apprentices at a time over to Ferelden, once we’d made enough to buy passage.”

Hawke looked over at her, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was reading her like a book. “Anders had a clinic in Darktown for a long while. If we all live through this, maybe I’ll introduce you both. He’s not eight feet tall, I’m sorry to say, but it’s an easy mistake to make when you’re knee high to a dwarf.”

Mireille snorted, indignant. “At least I don’t knock my head on doorframes.”

“I don’t believe you can even touch the top of a doorframe, short stuff.”

The path curved around the edge of a sheer cliff and down, and she lost her witty follow-up when the forder turned the corner and brought her face-first into the view. Snowflakes drifted across her vision, and high above the Frostbacks stretched violet and blue into the pale sky and framed the setting sun in their rocky palms. Warm pink light glanced over the shoulders of the peaks and down, far down below in the valley, a frozen river glittered golden in response. Somewhere above the mountaintops the pale clouds were torn into soft shreds, bright in the sunset light below a sliver of fading blue sky. And the sky – she’d never seen so _much_ of it, so flooded with light and color and quiet immense purpose, deep purple and grey behind, rosy pink and gold ahead…

Hawke checked his horse beside hers, and said quietly, “I know it’s not painless, to have your whole world crash down around you. Believe me, I do. But you’d never have seen something like _this_ otherwise, would you?”

His voice broke the spell, and she looked over to respond, but the Champion of Kirkwall just trotted away down the path.

Mireille looked out at the valley again, and shivered.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posts a day early because busy weekend! gotta get that plot and that strange human emotion called friendship out of the way before we can get back to the real question: when will there be makeouts in this fic. (the answer is: someday, hopefully, probably.)


	16. Chapter 16

An elegantly written note on Inquisition stationery, delivered by a very angry courier raven to the camp in the middle of the Graves, who pecked Mireille sharply on the forehead before flying off to hide in her tent:

   
_Inquisitor Trevelyan,_  
_You promised daily reports. It has been three days. Please inform us if we need to send a relief force to find you and your companions before the Commander decides to send one anyway._  
_Our feathered friend informs us that he is well on his way east, and thanks you for the pleasure of your company on the road. Best of luck to you in the Emerald Graves._

_Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador to the Inquisition_

And on the back, written in scrawled capitals and unsigned:

_The last time we lost track of you for over a day, you almost froze to death. Kindly stay in touch this time._

 

* * *

Written in a scratchy hand below the note on the back of the last missive, and delivered by the same harried-looking raven back to Skyhold:

  
_Ambassador: Am alive. Graves are wet, but have managed not to freeze to death in a forest. Lots of demons and Freemen. Slightly fewer now, actually. Also one less Seeker target causing trouble._  
_Will hand-deliver evidence of smuggling upon return – worried about losing messengers, and have a lead on other smugglers. Definitely an operation here. Will try to shut it down. Too much sketchy red shit here for my taste._  
_Will continue to write. Send fresh socks, please. No need for relief force – brought Bull and Seeker for a reason. Glad the bird’s on the move, but don’t ever play Wicked Grace with him. He cheats._

_~~Senior Enchanter Mireille~~ Inquisitor Trevelyan_

* * *

 

A large packet of diplomatic notes and several diagrams of dance steps, with a short note written on the bottom of an Emprise du Lion scout report:

  
_Inquisitor Trevelyan to be reminded that she’s still recuperating and should not be haring off after Seeker targets if she can help it, even if the Seeker asks nicely. Good work with the Freemen. We’re seeing substantially less activity from them – you’ve got them scared._  
_Glad to hear you’ve found evidence of smuggling. Less glad to hear that it’s red and that it’s being smuggled in the first place. Find out as much as you can, but watch for Red Templars – you haven’t made it to sword work yet._  
_Scouts have spotted new outcrops throughout the Emprise, all red. Be careful heading east._

_Cmdr Cullen Rutherford._

_PS: Isn’t cheating the point of the game?_

 

* * *

 

Folded up inside a charcoal-drawn map marked with villas and camps (and a number of large trees, circled in red) in the Emerald Graves:

  
_Commander Rutherford to be reminded that the Inquisitor is not a nug, and is therefore somewhat capable of self-defense, and also that if he’s going to complain about her inability to use or defend against a sword he is invited to try and hit her with one. And yes, cheating is the point. But he cheats. _  
_Have found several good staff trees here for our mages. Lumber should arrive in a few days, give or take. Please send more socks – Graves are wet, in case I haven’t mentioned. Concerned about becoming a magesicle on the way to Emprise if I step in any more bogs._  
_Lots of sketchy red shit, but have possibly taken care of smuggling operation. Will have a hell of a report to make when I get back._  
_Please send information about Sahrnia Quarry._

_~~Senior~~ Inquisitor Trevelyan _

     

* * *

 

The cover to a detailed scout report on the town and surrounding lands of Sahrnia, written in sleek cursive:

  
_Inquisitor Trevelyan to be reminded that her spymaster has to read these missives as well, and if she could refrain from ~~flirting~~ arguing with her Commander on Inquisition documents, that would be best – as her ambassador has promised to file all of them for records. _  
_The lands around Sahrnia are populated heavily with Red Templars. Locals may offer some assistance. Our people are ready for you when you arrive, but you may be harried on the way. Travel by night._

_Leliana_

     

* * *

 

A wet scrap of paper delivered by a very tired raven, written in a round uncertain hand:

  
_Commander Cullen:_  
_Backup is requested at the Tower of Bone. The Inquisitor is well, but took a blow to the head and diagnosed herself concussed when we took Drakon’s Rise. Reinforcements from lower camps are moving forward to hold our position, but with the Red Templars around we need more men to cover our flanks. A rift is making forward progress difficult with our Inquisitor temporarily out of commission. She also requests more socks, although she is wearing two pairs._

And at the bottom, illegibly shaky and smeared with elfroot paste:

_Requisition: 1 (one) bunch of sheep, for socks. Do sheep come in bunches? Bushels maybe?_

_Just trying to avoid freezing to death again. My feet get cold._

     

* * *

 

A scrawled note on the wrapping of a small package, tied up with twine and containing a pair of thick wooly socks:

  
_Seeker: Reinforcements are on their way from the Graves, all we can spare. Should arrive the day this message reaches you. They’ll move through Sahrnia to cover your back. Leliana has intercepted some messages from the other side as well – they are determined to hold their ground, which hopefully means you won’t have to go chasing them all over the countryside once you break through to the Keep._  
_Please wish the Inquisitor a speedy recovery, and perhaps see if you can get a helmet on her. Varric also requests that you make a point to destroy any outgrowths of “that sketchy red shit,” which is apparently what we’re calling the stuff now._  
_Inquisitor, if you’d like to fill your own requisition on the way back to Skyhold, we do appear to be running low on socks at last. Sheep come in flocks, by the way. I appreciate your dedication to not freezing to death again._  
_Best of luck._  


_Cmdr Cullen Rutherford._

     

* * *

 

A missive written in a scratchy but much less shaky hand, on a somewhat ripped piece of paper:

  
_Commander: soldiers arrived just in time to help us hold the Keep. Sketchy red shit destroyed, as much as we can find – it’s everywhere here. Directing cleanup crews to cart it all away. Not sure what to do with it, to be honest. We might want to think about that at some point._  
_To business: quarry emptied. Townsfolk saved. Some we were too late for. Bringing Mme Poulin for judgment – sold her people to Red Templars, fully aware of consequences. Didn’t feel cutting her head off was totally appropriate, but have threatened her with it a few times. Leaving a solid force here in case the Reds come back._  
_Barring snowstorms or some other ridiculous phenomenon, should be back within three days. Hopefully._

_Inquisitor Trevelyan_

_PS: Leliana, I do read all the words you write in your letters, even if they’re crossed out, so if you could kindly stuff your last missive where the sun doesn’t shine, I would appreciate it._

_PPS: Will pick up a bushel of sheep on the way back. Can't leave a requisition unfilled, after all._

     

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not totally satisfied with how this turned out, but MAN too much formatting to deal with rn, so minor fixes may happen later!


	17. Chapter 17

When Mireille walked through the gate of Skyhold with a small flock of sheep milling around her knees, well – she wouldn’t have traded the look on Cullen’s face for anything in the world.

Leliana’s was a close second, though. The spymaster was actually gaping at her as Mireille came to a stop before her advisors. “Where did you find _sheep?”_

“Where does anyone find sheep?” she asked, and patted one on the head to distract it from trying to eat her bag. “Actually, I don’t know where we found them, Sera made it happen.”

Cullen opened his mouth. Cullen closed his mouth.

“Can’t have a barefoot army, after all.” She tucked her hands behind her back. “Really, though, they’re some kind of hardy mountain thing that won’t die in the cold, and there’s some that’s been orphaned by Haven who might like to take care of ‘em.”

“That’s actually a good idea,” Josephine said, backing away from a sheep that was getting a little too interested in the ruffles on her skirt. “Unorthodox, but oddly thoughtful.”

“If you’ll go to this length for a joke, I am truly terrified of what we’ve unleashed on the world by making you Inquisitor,” Leliana muttered. “Shall we debrief? Would the sheep like to join us? I’m sure they have a lot to talk about.” A sheep went _bee-eh-eh-eh_ in response.

“Oh, right.” Mireille turned and put two fingers in her mouth to whistle.

“Oh _no,”_ Josephine said, as the sheepdog came hurtling around through the scouts, pausing to dance through Sera’s legs a few times before she trotted up to the base of the stairs, all lolling tongue and mismatched eyes.

“Good girl!” Mireille said, ruffling her fur. “Okay, watch the sheep, Candor.”

“You brought a _dog,”_ Cullen said with amazement, bending down to scratch behind her ears. “Where on earth – no, all right, we need to debrief you first. Red lyrium is more important. Yes. Who’s a good girl?” he added, presumably to the dog.

Josephine had backed halfway up the stairs and said, “Yes, please, let’s debrief. Without the dog. Please.”

Mireille put her hands on her hips and looked up at her. “Are you scared of dogs, Ambassador?”

The ambassador, who was clutching her paperboard like it could protect her, lowered it slightly. “No, of course not. That’s ridiculous. Dogs are lovely, I love dogs.”

Leliana patted her on the arm. “We’ll keep her out of your office. Come along, Commander, the dog will still be there when you get back.”

They’d made it all the way up the stairs before Cullen finally joined them, covered in dog hair and grinning an incredibly stupid grin that Mireille was really enjoying. “You brought a dog _._ Perhaps we should let you leave Skyhold more often, Inquisitor.”

“Only if I bring back more dogs, I assume.”

“A battalion of mabari would certainly be an asset to our troops…”

“No more dogs, please,” Josephine said firmly. “One is bad enough.”

“I’ll bring you a cat next time, Josie. Big fat fluffy one.”

“Please don’t, I have no interest in inky pawprints all over my papers. Or cat hair in my nose. I swear your accent has gotten _worse._ What happened to decorum, pray tell?”

“I’m an uncivilized Marcher and I’ve been spending a lot of time with Sera, so feel free to blame her. A bird?” she mused, as they passed through the hall. “A ferret? A nug.”

“Nugs make _wonderful_ pets,” Leliana said excitedly. “If you are interested, I am sure we can procure one. Or two. Skyhold is quite large, after all.”

Josephine glared at all of them and pushed open the door to the War Room. “Let’s discuss our potential for becoming a menagerie at another time. Or never, that would be nice. Inquisitor, you had some reports to give?”

Mireille pulled a packet out of her satchel and tossed it onto the war table. “Oh, I do. Gist of it is that Samson was smuggling red lyrium through the Graves from Sahrnia. They seeded it there. In people.” She drummed her fingertips on the table, possibly a little harder than she needed to. “We destroyed everything we could find, but there’s a lot of mopping up to do. Some interesting notes in there about red lyrium armor, too. I think we’ve gotten most of the smuggling operation – or we cut off its head, at least.”

Cullen had started leafing through the packet as soon as she’d tossed it down. Without his ridiculous dog-induced grin, the dark circles under his eyes were deep enough to sink a ship in. “Carroll,” he muttered. “Poor fool. He always was a little touched in the head.”

“Permanently, now,” Mireille said, which made him raise an eyebrow in disapproval.

Leliana snorted. “At least you’ve disabled Samson’s operations. You’ve done good work here, Inquisitor. My agents are reporting that the Graves have calmed since you took out the leaders, and the Emprise is still holding strong against a few pockets of Red Templars. Taking the keep was risky, but it paid off.”

“I should hope so. I had to fight a demon to get it, after all. Excuse me – choice spirit.”

Josephine held up her hands. “All right, let’s go back to the beginning, if you could. For our records.”

Mireille rolled her staff between her palms, steadying herself, and began.

 

* * *

  

It was quickly apparent that Candor the sheepdog did not actually know how to herd sheep.

She was certainly _smart_ enough, Mireille mused, chewing on the end of her pen. The fact that she’d managed to get onto the roof so she could break into Sera’s room and chew on her boots was proof of that. Sheep, though, she seemed to think were just fluffier dogs who wouldn’t play tug of war with her. The orphans adored her, but taking her out to herd sheep generally just ended in wet snowy dog and wet snowy orphans who were tired of chasing wet snowy dog.

And lately she’d attached herself to Mireille. Half of Skyhold willing to play with her at any hour of the day and the dog wanted nothing more than to drape herself over Mireille’s ankles while she worked on the paperwork. At least she made a good footwarmer.

She had currently managed to stretch all forty pounds of her little sheepdog body across Mireille’s ankles _and_ Varric’s, which was pretty impressive for a mid-sized dog, and was snoring loudly under the stone table. Mireille flipped through the papers in front of her and sighed. “At least one of us is having fun,” she told the dog.

“Yeah, they never tell you how much paperwork being a hero requires.” Varric scratched a few more notes into the ledger in front of him. “Kirkwall’s built on the stuff.”

“Apparently, so is Skyhold.” She stuck the pen into her mouth again and stared at the report in front of her – some kind of lengthy genealogy on Orlesian nobility tangentially related to the Trevelyans via her mother’s side. “At least we’re not as big as Kirkwall. You need a permit for a pot to piss in there.”

“That’s not…all right, that’s true, actually, but only because our sewer system is shot to shit.” Varric consulted another letter. “I forgot you lived there a few years. It’s been a nutty couple of months, hasn’t it?”

“Tell me about it. Heard of Cooper’s Hall?”

“That shithole of a tavern?”

Mireille nodded. “Used to run a clinic on the top floor. The proprieter, uh, had a condition that she really appreciated me removing.”

“I’ll bet she did. Orinna, right? With the skin thing? Damn good at Wicked Grace, but you’d swear a blizzard came in when she shook her head.” He chuckled, tapping his quill on the ink bottle. “That explains a lot about your card-playing abilities, Freckles.”

“I did learn from the best.” She sat back in her chair. Under the table, Candor made a _hmmph_ sound as she shifted her feet. “I would’ve beat Hawke, too, but he cheats on a whole new level. I’m honestly impressed.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t try to kill him,” Varric said. “I wouldn’t have bet on the outcome of that fight.”

Mireille twiddled the pen between her fingers, and said carefully, “It’s possible I didn’t have the whole story when I first spoke to him.”

“Hey, don’t look at me, I wrote it all down.”

“Varric, don’t take this the wrong way, but…I’d trust you with my life any day, I wouldn’t trust you with a story as far as I can throw you.”

He tugged thoughtfully on an earring. “All right, that’s fair, I may have embellished a little. But not that much. You can’t go wrong with a good adjective or two, you know.”

“Rumors move faster than printing presses, unfortunately.” She knitted her fingers together around the pen, avoiding the temptation to run her hands over her stomach, to feel for the scar. “Kirkwall was better, beforehand?”

“It’s been going to shit for twenty years, actually. But it’ll get better. Assuming Starkhaven doesn’t invade and Hawke stays away long enough. He likes popping up there on occasion just to keep things stirred up, the shit.”

“Sounds like him.”

Varric leaned his chin on his hand and gave her a sympathetic look. “Can’t imagine that was a peaceful transition, between a remote Circle and Kirkwall just after the explosion.”

He let the sentence hang in the air, inviting her to continue, and Mireille hesitated a moment – but then, this part was fine, wasn’t it? “It was interesting. Of course, we had to walk for three weeks even to get there. They asked me to go into the city and find lodging for fifteen people with the twenty silver we had between us.”

Varric snorted. “I’m sure that worked out great.”

“Oh, yes. I got mugged four times, I think?”

“Really? You’re doing pretty well for Lowtown if you only get mugged four times.”

Mireille twiddled with the pen in her fingers, using it to gesture along with her story. “Lucky I didn’t get stopped by a Templar, really. I got turned around a few times and then walked into Cooper’s in the middle of one of Orinna’s games. She told me to sit down and bet or get out, so I put in my last silver.”

She had the dwarf interested now, leaning forward in his seat, and she continued with somewhat more drama than was really necessary, warming to the story. “I’d played Wicked Grace once or twice before, so I did know the rules, at least. But somebody must have been watching out for me. I sat down at that table with Orinna and Ridan the Blade and Sapphire and Black Tuesday – all these fellows I had no idea were some of the best players this side of Darktown…”

Varric scoffed. “No way you just walked into a game with stakes like that.”

“It’s true, I promise. They were _really_ surprised when I won the first hand. I lost the next three, and then I won five hands in a row. Of course, then they got really invested in it…I lost all my winnings and nearly lost my fingers, and then Orinna took me aside and asked me if I had any dwarf blood, because the only person she’d ever seen beat her in Wicked Grace more than once was her own father. I told her I was a healer and I knew a nice potion to fix that little dandruff problem, by the way, and if she had lodging for me and my friends I’d be willing to provide it for free. And that’s how I bluffed my way into living in Kirkwall,” Mireille said with satisfaction. “She called me ‘duster’ for four years, too.”

He laughed, loud enough to wake up Candor, who stuck her nose up over the table in case there were treats on it. “That’s _incredible._ Is that actually true? Wait, I don’t care if it’s true, I’m putting that in the book. And you thought you couldn’t trust _me_ with a story. How’d Orinna feel about housing fifteen mages in her attic?”

“Well, her eyes bugged out a bit, but I think she got used to it eventually. I’m a very good herbalist.”

He chuckled to himself. “Incredible. Should’ve shared that one with Hawke.”

“I’ll tell him next time I see him.” She scratched Candor behind the ears. “Hey, girl. Nice nap?”

Varric’s wide grin had gone a little sad around the edges, and he looked down at the dog. “You know, all he wanted to do was stay out of this crazy shit. And then he jumps right back in anyway. So much for lying low.”

Mireille leaned forward on the desk, over the paperwork. “It does seem like he’s a magnet for trouble.”

“Well, when you fall in love with a crazy apostate possessed by a spirit of vengeance…there’s attracting trouble and there’s being attracted to it.” He patted Candor on the head, and she grinned a doggy little grin at him in hopes that there’d be food forthcoming. “Someone’s gotta put the world back together, Freckles. I hope you’re up for it, because it looks like it’s going to be you.”

“No pressure,” she said dryly, and carefully balanced a piece of jerky on Candor’s nose.

“Yeah, none at all. Andraste just got fed up with all these shenanigans and pointed a big blackened finger right at you and said ‘clean that up.’ At least she got someone sensible.”

“Okay, get the treat!” Candor snapped the jerky off her nose and chewed happily. “Good girl! Yes, I can’t say I’m all that impressed with her choice, but it seems like I don’t have one.” She rubbed at her left palm, through the sleeve covering her palm. “And I got a castle out of it, at least. I guess that’s something.”

“With only a few spiders.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

A sharp exclamation from across the hall made Candor’s ears prick up, and Mireille half-turned on the chair to glare at the source of the noise. This turned out to be a lanky elf in mage robes and a stout human in Templar plate, silhouetted against the sunlit entrance to the hall. Varric tapped his fingers together. “Oh, it’s those two again. I think you might’ve created a monster with that one, Freckles.”

“Yes, I thought that was Willow.” Mireille sighed. “Who’s the other one?”

“Beckett. She’s from Kirkwall. Young, pretty good at fighting, kind of naïve. Had a sister assigned to the Conclave, so she tagged along, but wasn’t up the mountain when the explosion hit. Serious sort of kid. She could use a chuckle.”

“Are you going to tell me what size boots she wears next?”

“Nah, I’d have to look that up.” Varric did make a show of looking through the papers. “But I’d guess about a seven. Maybe seven and a half? Those two get to arguing about Circles once every couple of weeks. Usually not this loud, though.”

Mireille tugged on her earlobe to sharpen her hearing, and caught the clear strains of argument – overlaid with titters from at least four different sets of nobles grouped across the hall. Who’d _talk._ And then she’d have _letters._ From people who were staying in her damn castle, at that. She scowled and stood up. “All right. Don’t let Candor eat my paperwork, would you?”

“You eat paperwork?” she heard Varric say to the dog. “I love you. Want to eat this? No? Come on, it’s tasty…”

She strode across the hall, in true disappointed teacher fashion, and swept right between the arguers. “Come with me.”

“Senior Enchanter! – I mean, Inquisitor – ”

“Herald, um, we were just – ”

Mireille swept them up along with her, with two solid grips on a plate-mailed elbow and a braceleted wrist, and successfully ushered the girls outside with barely a protest. Once she’d gotten them down the stairs and into the shadow of the stone landing, she let go of both youths and folded her arms. “What is your problem with each other?”

Both girls opened their mouths at once, and she held up a hand. “Beckett first. You’ll both get a chance to talk, don’t worry.”

“She accused me of watching her,” Beckett said unhappily, twiddling the end of her belt between her gauntleted fingers.

“Were you?”

“She’s a mage.” As if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m a mage as well, Templar.”

“Yes, your worship,” Beckett said, squirming under her gaze.

“Yet I don’t see you watching me. Why is that, pray?”

“You’re a Senior Enchanter, Inquisitor. You’re – you’re the Herald of Andraste. Your Worship. And she’s not even Harrowed!” This prompted an insulted noise from Willow. “I have to do my part, as a Templar. It’s my duty, your worship,” she finished, although her increasingly pink face was much less certain than her words.

“All right, I see. We’ll get back to you in a moment. Willow?” Mireille asked, turning to the apprentice.

“She watches me all the time. It’s like being back in Kinloch, I swear. She doesn’t trust me, and if I went through the Harrowing she’d still look at me the same way ‘cos she does it to the other mages too, they all do. I know we’re conscripts, but we work for the Inquisition, doesn’t that mean you trust us?” Willow said all this in one very quick rush, like a frustrated bellows. “I know we’re conscripts, but you’re a mage too, you trusted us to help with the Breach. And we closed it!”

Mireille took a moment to digest this. Then she looked back at Beckett, who was staring fixedly somewhere just above her head and looked like she was trying not to puke. “All right. Beckett, I know what you’ve been taught as a Templar, but Skyhold is not a Circle. We aren’t holding Harrowings here, we have bigger things to deal with. I know you’re worried about misuses of magic because you’re a Templar and that’s what they taught you to look for, but you’re not the only one looking out for the safety of our mages. You have a Grand Enchanter, a First Enchanter, and a Senior Enchanter keeping an eye on things, along with a whole passel of Harrowed mages, by the way. And Apprentice Willow, too, in fact, which is probably why she’s taken offense. You could always ask her about it.”

Willow stuck her tongue out and Mireille resisted the urge to grab it. Instead she turned a level gaze on the apprentice. “Don’t think I’m done with you yet, miss. I’m told you two argue this a lot and I’m willing to bet you start it more than half the time, which is not exactly proof of your innocence here.” I know because I’d do the same thing, she added to herself. Maybe she had created a monster…

The apprentice blinked and retracted her tongue. Mireille held up her hands. “Listen. You’re both part of the Inquisition now, not just a mage and a Templar, and I want you to remember that before you go griping at each other. This is not a Circle. You mages are not apostates and maleficars, and you Templars are not rogues or tyrants, this isn’t the Hinterlands – you’re both soldiers of the Inquisition, you are _on the same side_. I know there’s bad blood here. But you’re going to talk about it like adults, not argue about it in front of a bunch of visiting dignitaries that are going to write me letters tomorrow. Is that clear?”

“Yes mum. I mean. Inquisitor,” Beckett said, dragging a foot over the grass.

“Yes, Senior – Inquisitor,” Willow said resignedly.

“Good. If you’re not feeling like talking about this reasonably right now, that’s fine, but I expect your next argument to be a more civil one. Are we clear?”

Beckett gave her a very respectful bow and hustled away without looking at the apprentice. Beside her Willow huffed. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor, she’s just so – ugh!”

“Do all the Templars treat you that way, Apprentice?” Mireille asked.

The apprentice shrugged. “Nobody calls me knife-ear or anything, Inquisitor, it’s not so bad. Most of the Templars are too busy to bother with us, but I don’t think they like us very much. Some of the older mages were talking about making that tower into a Circle.”

“Are they, now?”

“Just sometimes. They miss it, I guess.” Her tone was flat and unimpressed.

“But you don’t.” Willow folded her arms around herself, and Mireille said, “It’s all right if you don’t, Willow. You can’t help how you feel.”

Willow scuffed a foot through the grass. “It was just…cold and lonely. I like learning magic, and the alchemy and stuff is really interesting. And some of the senior enchanters were nice. But they never sent my letters to my mother and they didn’t want us apprentices to be friends or talk to each other, even. A lot of the Templars were scary.” Her fingers gripped at the sleeves of her robe, pulling at the fabric. “The older ones, especially. They just…look at you like you’re an ant. Or a wasp.”

“Is it better here with the Inquisition?”

The apprentice nodded happily. “I get to talk to horses here! And I like the mountains, and I wrote to my mother, and she _wrote back._ I like it here.” Her arms loosened around herself, until she was gesturing along with her words. “And I like working in the apothecary and making potions and feeding the ravens sometimes when Leliana lets me. I like Beckett sometimes, too, when she’s not watching me and being all stuffy about it. She’s really good at bird calls. She’s not all bad, I guess. I just wish she trusted me more.”

Mireille glanced across the yard. From here she could see the stout little Templar, still blushing very hard, currently standing just in the shade of a large pine and pressing her gauntleted fingers against her cheeks to cool them. Poor girl. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and that worried little face reminded her all too much of a scared recruit with a sword too big for his hands waiting in Ostwick’s Harrowing chamber. They’d been trained all their lives to believe they had sole responsibility for the weight of the world, and what shadows did that make you see in the corner of your eye? Where could it end?

A sword and a carpet soaked in blood, that’s where.

Aloud, she said, “Really? I wonder if she’d like to meet the ravens? I think Leliana said she’d be up there all afternoon, you know, if your lessons are finished for the day.”

Willow gave her a confused glance, then followed her gaze up to Beckett, and then a light dawned slowly in her face. “Oh. Oh, maybe she would. Maybe Leliana will let me feed them again? And the Enchanter said he’d be busy all afternoon…Thank you, Inquisitor,” she said, with a very sloppy but very deep bow, and then she scampered across the yard.  

Mireille leaned against the stonework, just out of view, and watched the apprentice run up to the Templar and tuck her hands behind her back. Beckett’s worry didn’t quite vanish under what she must have thought was a stern Templar frown turned on the elf. Then Willow asked a question, tilting her head, and Beckett’s pink face lit up and she nodded hesitantly. Willow bounced on her heels and led the Templar up the stairs into the main hall, smiling at her. They began talking very animatedly about birds – Mireille caught the phrase “but what _kind_ of ravens? They’re much bigger than the usual mountain ravens!” as the two girls nearly ran up the steps. Ah, teenagers.

 She gave them a minute or two’s berth and then headed back into the hall herself, chewing on her lip.

Varric was still at the table, although he’d tidied up quite a bit. “Well, they came through yelling about birds, so that’s an improvement. Whereas you look like you just bit off a bigger problem than the one you solved.”

“Well, I am apparently putting the world back together, so I think that might be my default expression nowadays.” Mireille cast a wide glance over the table and sighed, scooping up the new packet of papers. “Speaking of gaining more problems…”

“Yeah, Leliana’s man dropped that off for you. No rest for the wicked, right?” He tucked a ledger under his arm. “I’ve got to go shout at some merchants. Good luck, Freckles. Don’t accumulate too many more problems while I’m gone.”

She made a face and flipped through the packet. Ah, this was the final report from Sahrnia…not that she really wanted to think about Sahrnia right now, or possibly ever again. So much death, so many glossy red outcrops with facets like faces if you looked at them just righ, and the sickly fever-warmth of them did chase the cold away, but she’d prefer to freeze in the snow. At least snow was a clean honest way to die.

Candor, who’d been patiently sitting under the table, stuck her head out and licked Mireille’s fingers, whining softly.

Mireille shivered and scooped her papers back into the satchel. It was suddenly too warm here by the fireplace, but it’d be quiet on the battlements at this time of the afternoon and she could pick up a snack. Yes, that was probably why she was feeling so – mixed up. Food would help. And fresh cold air.

She accepted a pair of meat pies from the cook and brought them up to the pile of crates on the battlements, in the shadow of one of the watchtowers, half-hidden from the wind. Candor stole most of one and then fell asleep across Mireille’s crossed legs, so she balanced the packet on top of the dog and continued to read, brushing crumbs off black and white fur.

A cool breeze ruffled her hair, and she pulled her heavy cloak closer. Candor snored. It was a comforting sound, a nice and sleepy noise. Mireille scratched the dog’s ears and got a snuffle in return.

And she hadn’t really slept much the past few days, had she? Hard roads, bad dreams…

She drifted off without even noticing.

 

* * *

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter is a wee bit NSFW. just a smidge, though.

Mireille drifted, dream into memory.

Circles weren’t supposed to celebrate things. They were towers of learning, sanctuaries of knowledge, of magic – at least in theory. But at the high levels, when you’d been part of the hierarchy for a long while, proven yourself a responsible mage, a reliable person…things became a little more lenient. It made a promotion something you could celebrate with alcohol, for instance. If you were quiet.

It had been a celebration for someone else, whose name Mireille couldn’t remember but whose face persisted in looking half-bloody when she glanced up. Killed by – no, she couldn’t remember, not yet. The senior enchanters mingled, congratulating their new member, asking questions about her thesis. Just a few Templars, smiling for once around the edges of the room, quiet, almost friends, proud of their charges. Brynn even kissed the new senior enchanter on the cheek.

And he smiled down at her, blue eyes and dark hair cropped short, a little nervous – flush with new responsibility. Just barely Knight-Captain, might be Knight-Commander soon, if old Barret took a turn for the worse. (And he would, he would, just another few months and he’d be behind a closed door in the infirmary, flu-ridden and raving and senile, too early for a man so young. Knight-Commander it would be, and then – no, not yet.)

For now there was the sharp heady taste of gin, the smoothness of a bottle, the slow slide from sober congratulations to drunken praise of achievement –

“This is definitely not allowed,” he’d said, when she pulled him into a corner away from prying eyes.

“I know,” she’d replied, and kissed him with a smirk on her face.

Then backwards into a bed, narrow and creaking and necessitating small motions, and she’d whispered “Please?” and he’d whispered “Are you sure we can get away with this?” and she’d helped him strip off the heavy armor in favor of the sharp electric brush of skin on skin. It was uncertain and rushed and beautiful and _right,_ fumbling and nervous and bittersweet as juniper.

He’d made such sweet sounds into her hair when he –

Pulled back, and plunged his sword into her belly, pale eyes wide with fear and fury, whispering – “You’d have turned on me in the end.” And the knife in her hand slipped into his neck, like cutting a cake, and cut open  – a gaping Breach, and demons poured out, red and wet and grasping as the light left his eyes –

 

* * *

 

Mireille started up so violently that Candor barked at her, and choked off the scream into something like a strangled yelp.

She grasped the dog’s ruff for something concrete to hold onto. A wet tongue licked her face. This made the cold breeze _very_ cold on her face and woke her a little more. Mireille shook herself, blinking hard, and tried to breathe. Tried to focus her eyes. One hand patted her stomach, intact.

Just the dream. Or memory. Maybe she ought to try lucid dreaming again, wake herself up before the bad part hit. Maker...

Candor whined and licked her face a few more times. Mireille let her do it until the breeze chilled her wet face too much and she had to wipe the slobber off on her sleeve. “All right, all right, I’m awake. Come on, stop that.”

She gave the dog a good hard pet, though, until her tail thumped on the crate and Mireille felt marginally better about her state of wakefulness. The sun had dropped much farther down the horizon since she’d fallen asleep. She twisted around on the crate to look out over the valley, which also brought the cold wind right into her face and stole her breath away. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was distracting, at least.

Candor, still sitting next to her on the crate, tugged on her cloak.

“What?” she asked the dog, turning, and then jumped again, because Cullen was standing about three paces away from her. “Maker’s breath, man, we really need to put a bell on you.”

“I wasn’t aware I was moving that quietly in heavy armor, Inquisitor.” He gave Candor a good scratch. “I take it the report from Sahrnia isn’t particularly exciting?”

“Not exactly compelling literature.” Mireille swept a few errant curls off her face and shivered, still trying to shake off the heaviness of the dream. “Which I suppose is a good thing.”

“After everything else in Sahrnia, I should think so. I suppose you’re well rested for combat training, at least?”

She frowned. Oh, balls. So that had been the note on her desk this morning. That she’d ignored. Because of the fifteen other notes on her desk this morning. “Candor, aren’t you supposed to remind me of that kind of thing?”

“If you tied a to-do list to her collar, perhaps she could.”

She rolled her eyes and attempted to stand up. “Maker’s balls, my leg is asleep. Candor, you’re the worst.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Cullen said to the dog, as Mireille tried to unfold her legs from under her. “You’re the best. Aren’t you? Yes, you are the best doggy.”

She managed to get to her feet, swaying only slightly, and shrugged her cloak down over one arm so the cold air could hit the back of her neck. “I see you’ve won her affections by base flattery, Rutherford.”

“Yes I have,” he cooed at Candor, who thumped her tail against the crate. Mireille snorted, and saw the exact moment when Cullen realized he’d just baby-talked to a dog in front of her, because he immediately blushed and straightened up. And then scratched Candor behind the ears again. “Ahem. Well, ah, if you’re finished reviewing reports…”

She scooped up the papers and stuffed them back into the satchel. “I don’t know, it was a very nice nap,” she lied.

“I don’t believe you’re willing to pass up a chance to hit me, Inquisitor.”

“You might be right,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the faint satisfied smirk on his face.

He started down the battlement, not waiting for her to follow. “How much do you know about swordsmanship?”

“I know it involves sticking swords in people. Go bother Sera, Candor,” she added, and the sheepdog trotted away happily.

Cullen sighed. “Right to the point, thank you, Trevelyan. I mean, have you used one? Had to defend against one?”

“A little on both. The Knight-Enchanter suggested I work on some basic cuts and stances,” she added, when he glanced at her in surprise. “Apparently using a magic sword is a lot like using a regular sword, although the way that woman moves I’m not totally sure they’re the same.”

“It’s a good discipline. I’ve seen a few in action.” He paused, and then shook his head firmly like he was trying to get something out of it. “She seems a capable woman, and I can’t say I know a thing about magic swords, but we can certainly find a way for you to defend with the staff against a blade – assuming you’ll still be carrying a staff. You’ll need to be careful, though. A heavy enough sword might break the wood, and you don’t seem to favor metal staves.”

“Thus, magic,” she said, wiggling her fingers as they walked into the northernmost tower, which had acquired a new layer of junk in her absence. The torches on the walls lit up with a warm glow at the wave of her hand.

“You shouldn’t rely on one avenue of defense when you can have multiple,” he said, unbuckling his sword. “If you find yourself somewhere without a staff, or you can’t use magic, or you panic – self-defense should be second nature, regardless of where you are or what you’re doing.”

“I suppose so.” Mireille had been looking at him anyway, so it might have been just luck that she saw his gloved fist come around and managed to leap back out of the way in time for it to scrape past her nose.

“You see,” he said, dusting off his hands. “You’re getting there. Trying hitting back next time, perhaps.”

She scowled at him and shoved a crate of what appeared to be draperies across the floor. “You know, I did survive a month without you breathing down my neck about self-defense.”

“And how many times did your combat training save your life?” Cullen rummaged through one of the boxes and came out with a practice sword, just a blunt length of metal.

She did a quick count on her fingers, ran out of fingers, and decided to busy herself by shuffling some boards into the corner.

“Precisely, Inquisitor.”

“I hate it when you’re right,” Mireille grumbled, joining him in the center of the room with her staff in hand. It was still bladeless – she really should fix that sometime.

“A truly difficult concept to accept, I know.” He rolled the sword in his wrist, settling into a stance. “You’re going to encounter a few different basic cuts to defend against. Actually do move slowly this time, we’re just figuring out what works and what doesn’t.”

When he swung the sword up, slowly, she blocked it just as slowly, knocking the blade to one side. “This is where that dodgy thing you do might come in handy,” Cullen continued. “If you can get out of the way, you can get inside your attacker’s guard with your shorter reach, and at a certain point it’ll be hard to turn the sword and get at you. Of course, it still tires you out.”

He stepped forward, presumably to prove his point, and looked down at her from entirely too close and suddenly the tower felt about twelve degrees warmer. “If you’re too close, it’s not that hard for someone to stab you in the back. Use your reach.”

She swallowed and brought the staff up, tapping it against his breastplate, then up against his chin – possibly a little harder than necessary. “To hit you in the face?”

“Sure. Unless they’re wearing a helmet. Templar armor covers the neck well, usually, but it’s weak behind the knees or under the arms.” He stepped back again. “Don’t forget to get out of the way.”

This time when he swung around at her head she sidestepped and deflected the swing with one end of the staff and then snapped it back across her body to tap the side of his face.

“Good. Try that again.”

It didn’t take long for Mireille to start sweating, a few loose curls sticking to her neck. Some of these blocks were familiar. Part of the battlemage forms she’d learned, maybe –

The sword whipped around the _other_ direction and she skipped back, without blocking. “Don’t get too used to rhythm,” Cullen said, following her backward. “And don’t forget to block.”

She scowled at him again and blocked the next swing, then smacked her staff into the back of his knee, trying to knock him off balance, but it wasn’t hard enough and he recovered easily and swung around at her ribs. Steel clanked off wood, she snapped the staff up and it crashed against his breastplate – and tangled in the stupid coat, dammit! – and she had to drop it as he shifted position to swing again.

“If you don’t _have_ a weapon, you’re going to want to get one,” he said, advancing on her.

“I am a _mage.”_ She held up a hand wreathed in lightning.

That did stop him in his tracks, and he lowered the sword. “And if your opponent can take a direct lightning strike, what are you going to do? Glare at them as you bleed to death?”

She could see the blue-white flicker of the electricity in his eyes, and that stern and oh-so Templar wary focus, and said with heat, “I’ll hit them again, then.”

He sighed, frustrated. “Unless you’re _dead,_ of course.”

Mireille flicked her wrist and dismissed the spell, watching his feet, waiting for – _that,_ when he shifted into a stance and came at her again. She ducked under the whipping sword and kept moving forward until she could get a leg behind his knee and shove him backwards across it as a fulcrum. He made a very satisfying clank when he hit the ground.

Of course, he’d kept hold of his sword, which she realized when cold metal touched her neck.

She glared at him. “How am I supposed to get out of that, pray tell?”

“Don’t drop your staff,” he responded, glaring right back at her from the ground. “You could have kept hold of it, stepped straight back. Realistically, Enchanter, you could probably just light the coat on fire, although I’d appreciate if you didn’t during a training exercise.”

“It’d be a blessing.” She stepped back, away from the sword, and he got to his feet.

“I like my coat, thank you. It was a good throw, but watch for a strike, especially if you trip someone with better reach than you.” Cullen paused to grip the bridge of his nose like it’d personally offended him and then shook his head, returning to the center of the room. “Templars aren’t generally inclined to let go of their swords.”

“I’ve noticed,” she muttered, retrieving her staff from the floor.

He swung slowly again, so she blocked fast, and was rewarded with another slow thrust forward that she dodged easily. A part of her – the part that had always been a good student and done its homework on time – noted that starting slowly was probably the point, and struggled with her pride for a moment before she slowed herself down too.

“There you go, you’re learning.”

She curled her lip into a snarl, and blocked again and struck fast this time, right against his cheekbone, just hard enough to make him blink.

He swept the sword back around and she went to block and he _moved,_ right back and straight in for a thrust – and his face was stern and cold – and all she could see were _blue eyes_ and fear and _fury –_ and she scrambled backward with a choking scream, the tip of the sword touched her stomach and she _felt it oh Maker no –_

Mireille brought the staff around as her vision faded, because _not this time –_

Distantly, she heard a yelp, felt the wood connect and the power flow through, then her back hit the stone wall, her hands were clenched at her stomach around phantom steel, but there was _nothing_ there, nothing, nothing, she could feel the scar – it was _not there –_

Her vision cleared a little, and she managed to swallow around the hard lump in her throat. Someone was making a faint keening noise. Oh, Maker, it was _her_ voice…she could hear thunder in her ears and it might have been her heartbeat, pumping blood out of her body through the _hole_ in her belly –

“No,” she muttered, and her voice sounded raw and shaky and loud in her own ears. She could feel the scar through her tunic, under the leather jacket. The sword wasn’t there. It wasn’t there. You’re fine, you’re safe, she told herself, over and over, pressing the words into her skull. You’re alive. You’re alive.

Her eyes were shut tight and beyond them she heard, quiet and wary, “Mireille?”

Oh, _balls._ She managed to take a full breath, but no words came when she let it out.

A hand touched her shoulder and she leapt back in pure animal instinct, heard the snap of electricity. Immediately the hand withdrew.

Her hair had come loose from the tie, falling heavy around her face and smelling faintly of jasmine, and she clung to the scent. Better than the memory of foul blood and sharp ozone. Templars always smelled like that. Well, not usually like blood, but – she gripped her racing thoughts hard and felt her wrist creak under her own fingers.

It felt like it took years to get her breath back.

Her fingers were locked around each other, pressed against her stomach, and when she eased them open they were damp and aching. She opened one eye.

Cullen was standing a few feet away from her, with the sword still in his hand. There was blood on his face. A small cut leaking blood in a dark line down his cheek, one glove ripped and smoking gently – and why was his coat smoldering? That was odd. He was looking at her like – like she was going to explode, or something. That was fear, right there, in the lines under his eyes, half-covered with stern Templar suspicion.

Mireille hiked in a breath, her back pressed against the solid wall. There were tears drying on her face in the cool air.

The quiet yawned like a waiting throat, patient, ready to snap at whatever fell into it.

Cullen glanced down at the sword, up at her, and she couldn’t breathe – there was a sharp retort on her tongue and she couldn’t let it loose – and then he set it down on a crate, within easy reach, and pulled off his burnt glove, unbuckled the soot-covered bracer. There was blood on the back of his hand, too. His eyes never left her face.

She took a few more deep breaths against the thundering panic in her chest. “I’m okay. I just – I’m – I just need a moment.”

He raised his eyebrows, faintly concerned, and it was so _normal_ that she snapped, “Oh, like you’ve never been scared of anything in your life, Templar.”

“That’s not true,” he said quietly, and the wariness lurking behind that statement made her breath stutter in her throat.

At least she was getting angry about it now, though. “Then put me down, if you’re so scared of _me_. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“You don’t _know_ that,” he said, his voice still so quiet and cold, fingers busy rolling up the sleeve on his bare arm.

“I used to like Templars, you know.” Her voice was getting louder, and there was a snarl to it that twisted her stomach and hammered fear into rage. “Nice people. Seems like all they’ve been doing lately is attempting to kill me, though, which is rather coloring my opinion. I get where the rebels are coming from, now,” she continued, in the face of his stony disapproval. “You get one too many people who look at you like you’re nothing but a rabid dog, I can see why you’d want to run off.”

“You’ll note I haven’t ever tried to kill you,” he said, and there was _finally_ some heat in his voice. “I thought you of all people would be able to see past this stupidity. You were supposed to be a _diplomat._ Were you really just on their side, or have you changed your mind?”

She curled her fingers into fists and ignored her aching knuckles. “Perhaps I have, but at least I know they’re – _we’re_ people. Every time I try to be more than a mage you give me that look – _that_ one, right there – that tells me you think I’m nothing but a bomb waiting to go off. Blow up another Chantry. Make another Kirkwall,” she snarled, and he flinched.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt!” Cullen stepped closer to her, no sword in his shaking hands, and that made it easier to crush the fear under trembling anger. “But you’ve managed to prove me wrong at every turn. You’re supposed to be _above_ this and you just – let it twist you up again. You’ve never left the Circle in your head, you’ve never tried to be more than a mage, it’s all you know. A – a terrible person hurts you and you can’t move past it and let it go – ”

“You try being run through and tell me how forgiving it makes you feel,” she spat, her fingers clenching in the shirt above the scar. “And who hurt you, Templar? Some pretty magelet who wouldn’t turn her head for you? Why are you so scared of us?”

Mireille didn’t even _see_ his hands move until they slammed against her shoulders and pinned her to the wall. “Don’t,” he growled, four inches from her face.

She met his glare with her own and said, with as much scorn as she could muster, “Did she run off on you in the end, Templar, or was she more the blood magic type?”

“Heard of Kinloch?” he said, and she frowned, her rage briefly derailed.

“I was there, Enchanter. It was overrun – maleficars, demons, abominations. Ten years ago, during the Blight. I was there and they took me apart, and I was _lucky,_ because every other Templar in that tower left in a shroud. Do you know what that’s like _,_ Enchanter? Can you even imagine?” There was something horrible and dark in his eyes, some shadowy memory hazed over with anger, his voice cracking around the edges. “Have you ever had to – watch your friends turn into monsters, the people you thought you could protect? And then watch them _turn_ on you?”

“I have,” Mireille said, sharp and cold. “More than once. You know that.”

“Then why do you keep prodding at it? What purpose does that serve, why are you _like_ this?” he demanded, his fingers tight on her shoulders, digging into the healing scar – the arrow wound she’d gotten defending Haven, defending _him._

She tried to shrug him off, but his grip was like iron. “And how well do you think pretending it never happened is working out for you?”

“I know that it happened, but I don’t poke it like a rotting tooth!” Cullen shook his head firmly, scattering a few tawny curls across his forehead. “You just – you dig and dig at old wounds and don’t let go until you’ve pulled up something you’ll regret bringing out into the light. Why would you want to – I want _nothing_ to do with the man I used to be.”

“You think you can get off that easy? You think what you’ve seen, what you’ve _done,_ doesn’t matter?” Mireille shoved his fingers off her right shoulder, shifting his hand away from the wound. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever been hurt by someone you tried to protect? Don’t act like you’re better than me, Rutherford. You’re just as caught up in the past as I am. You’re just a little better at hiding it.”

“At least I’m trying to move on.” His hands were trembling now, wrapped around her biceps, and that didn’t quite mesh with the low hiss of his voice. “I’m well aware it’s not enough, but it’s _something.”_

“And you think I’m not trying hard enough, is that it?” Mireille lifted her chin to glare up at him. “It’s not that fucking simple, you can’t just make yourself better through sheer force of will, you have to _work_ for it – mmphh,” she added, because Cullen had just kissed her very hard on the mouth.

There was no finesse, no romance to it, just a rough, sudden hunger. There was blood on his tongue and his stubble scraped across her chin. Teeth clacked against teeth and she dug hers into his lip until he grunted in surprise and pain and bit back. It should have been awful or at least mediocre and it was _not,_ and she shuddered against the heat of him, the last of her panic drowning in terrible, furious arousal that curled up sick and twisty and satisfying in her gut.

“Or you could do that,” Mireille said, half-stunned and half-muffled by his lips, and when he started to pull away she grabbed him by the collar and tugged him down again. He made a soft desperate sound and didn’t resist, his bare hand tangling in her hair. Pinned between his armored chest and the stone wall, she couldn’t breathe, she didn’t care, the hard hot press of his mouth on hers was the whole of the world.

Finally Cullen pulled back, breathless and angry and disheveled, and licked the blood off his upper lip – a quick wet flash of teeth and tongue – and she so, _so_ wanted to make him bleed so she could watch him do that again.

“Maker damn you, you are supposed to be better than this,” he said, under his breath, possibly to himself. But his ungloved fingers stroked across the nape of her neck anyway.

 Mireille laughed, and it came out rough-edged and short. “Clearly neither of us is better than this, Cullen. What are you going to do about it?” Had she ever used his first name before? She couldn’t remember now with his fingers in her hair. Her hands were knotted up in his ruff, one knuckle just barely brushing warm skin. He was still four inches away from her face and she couldn’t tear her eyes off his.

The world – balanced, on the fulcrum where his anger met hers.

“Something immensely stupid, I think,” Cullen said at last, low and hoarse, and leaned in to kiss her again.

This time it was slower, more thorough, full of shivery want. The sweet warmth of his tongue stirred something in her hips, and she lifted a hand to his chin to get a better angle, to feel his pulse thrum under her fingertips, she couldn’t get _close_ enough – Mireille tugged harder on the furry ruff, staggering on her tiptoes. “This _is_ stupid. You’re too damn tall.”

“You’re too damn _short,”_ he growled, and then she yelped as he picked her up bodily and shoved her hard against the wall, supporting her half with his hands and half with the friction of his hips on her own. She wrapped both legs around his waist as tightly as she could, purely to anchor herself – well, not purely, because she could _feel_ how – excited he was, if you wanted to put it delicately, but she really didn’t care to, so she’d probably describe it as ‘a throbbing erection’ that was rubbing up between her legs right now.

Having lost the advantage, she settled for skinning both hands through his hair and tilting his head so she could drag her teeth down the scruffy line of his jaw. Cullen inhaled sharply, his fingers digging into her thighs, and she smirked into his jugular. “Maker, you’re easy, aren’t you?”

“Do you always talk this much in these situations?” he demanded, and covered her response with his mouth, his teeth closing in her lip, and she made a tiny involuntary noise deep in her throat as his hips shifted against hers and then he did it _again,_ rolled against her in a long slow motion.

“You are doing that on _purpose,”_ she said, with a tremor in her voice that had nothing to do with fear.

“Yes, I am,” he murmured, biting her earlobe, and a curling shudder ran down her spine all the way to her toes, chased by the sharp catch of his teeth down her neck and over her throat. Mireille pulled his head back by the hair to kiss him again, trying to cut off the cry of vicious pleasure before it could leave her mouth. Oh, _Maker._

Cullen shifted, hoisted her up a little higher, and she tilted his head and worked her lips along his neck again, enjoying the little choked-off gasps vibrating through his throat, and muttered, “I hope you bruise.”

“Don’t you _dare_ – ” The rest of his protest was lost in a sharp moan as she sank her teeth into his neck just above the gorget. His hand tightened painfully on her thigh, and she bit and sucked until he gasped into her ear, hips stuttering against hers. She hummed in satisfaction and shifted just a little upward, her free hand hooked under the strap of his breastplate to hold herself in place.

When she let go at last he pulled away, panting into the space between them, bright indignant fury coloring his cheeks. “You are utterly terrible _._ ”

“I get the sense that you like it, since you haven’t put me down yet,” she said, stroking a thumb hard over his jaw. Over the bruise blooming purple on the side of his neck. The blood on his cheek was half-dry, stuck to her fingers, and she wiped at it automatically.

“Stop that.” He winced and shook his face out of her grasp, scowling at her.

“Well, you did try to – to – ” Her voice faltered, fear surging right back to the surface, and Mireille swallowed around the lump in her throat. She kissed him hard to cover it – tried to lose herself in the breathless heat of his mouth and the desperate clutch of his hands around her thighs, and it almost worked except she did need to breathe at some point, which meant _not_ kissing him, which meant –

“Do you honestly think I would hurt you?” he said, when their lips parted again, and he sounded genuinely confused. “Setting me on fire may have been a bit of an overreaction, you know.”

“I panicked,” she murmured against his other cheek, her stomach twisting back up despite her best efforts. “I thought you were – it doesn’t matter.”

Cullen pulled back again, searching her face, anger melting into frowning concern. There was so much gold in his eyes – like sunlight, like autumn leaves, maybe, like candles in the dark. One hand came up and brushed her hair away from her face. A bare fingertip skimmed her cheekbone, feather-light.

Of course, that was the moment when the laws of physics intervened.

Gravity has no sense of timing at all, and even a strong man has trouble holding up a fully grown woman with only one arm and the power of friction – especially if her ankles are getting tired of being hooked together for so long. There was a crash and a tangle of limb and a decent bit of swearing on her part, and at the end of it Mireille was somehow still standing, one arm wrapped around Cullen’s ribs to avoid falling over entirely. He’d caught her knee in an attempt to keep her from hitting the ground, his other arm curled around her back for support, and released it gently before he glanced back down into her face.

There was a _lot_ to parse there, a flicker of expression that shifted from fear to concern to anger and all the way into embarrassed realization and that was about the moment when she realized she was – standing there, legs shaking with a lingering desire, holding onto him and being held.

Cullen released her, stepped back to a respectable distance, and she had to force herself to let him go.

He glanced away, then back at her. And then blushed right up to the tips of his ears. “I, ah – Mireille, I – ”

Mireille held up her hands and shook her head firmly, because oh _fuck_ she wanted to climb right back into his arms and finish whatever they’d just started and if she did she was going to have a very hard time looking him in the eye tomorrow. Not that she wasn’t _anyway..._ “Don’t – you’re going to apologize, and I – please, just, don’t.”

He managed to blush even harder and looked away. Now that his hand wasn’t tangled up somewhere in her hair (and that was _not_ a thought she could let herself contemplate right now) she could see the long slash from knuckle to wrist, and she said, “Come here, let me see that.” It came out much more authoritatively than she’d intended, but you stick with what you know.

“We are – _never_ doing that again,” he said, staying put. “That was – that was _not –_ ”

 She rolled her eyes. “Well, yes. I mean. That was – a terrible idea, I just – your hand is bleeding, you’ve got blood all over your face, and someone’s probably going to ask you about that, aren’t they? Let me see. Please.”

He didn’t move, giving her a look that was about half embarrassed shock and half disapproval. She rolled her eyes and reached out to take his hand – because skin to skin contact was best for healing, that was _all,_ she told herself, tugging on her connection to the Fade – and then he flinched away from her touch. Or maybe from the magic tingling on her fingers.

Anger reared up hot and snake-fast and Mireille bit down on her abused lower lip to keep from lashing out again, because apparently that road led to – well, to abused lower lips and, not to put too fine a point on it, very wet smallclothes.

Cullen’s hand had curled immediately into a fist. He eased the fingers open, wincing. “I’m sorry. I mean – I…it’s been a long time since I’ve been – attacked, that way. I, ah. Didn’t react well, to say the least. So I apologize.”

“I suppose I didn’t either.” She reached out again. His hand trembled under her fingers, but he didn’t pull away this time. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t – I was – well. I’m sorry.”

He was definitely looking down at her, and she closed her eyes to avoid having to return his gaze.

Her body was protesting the consideration of magic, right now – it was too overwhelmed with worldly things – and she ignored it and focused on the cut. It was rough-edged but shallow, and without actually thinking about it she licked her thumb and wiped the dry stuff away. Not the best way to clean a wound, but it’d do for something so minor. Cullen winced under her hand, but she kept a firm grip on his fingers and felt the skin knit back together. As an afterthought, she sealed a few of the broken vessels that were giving the bruise on his neck a beautiful purple glow.

Mireille opened her eyes again, and looked up at him, and still entrenched in healer’s habits, she licked her thumb again and wiped away the dried blood on his cheek. It took a few tries to get it all off, but the cut was small and had already stopped oozing.

It was too easy to lose focus. Too easy to stop being a healer cleaning blood off a patient and start being a woman with her hand on a man’s scruffy jawline. His skin was still flushed and warm under her palm, his hair all soft and tousled around his temples, there were deep shadows under his eyes and she _watched_ him bite his lip and it sent a ready shiver all the way down to her toes –

There was one instant, one tiny motion forward and down that she might have just imagined, and then Cullen pulled his hand out of hers and turned away. He strode across the room, barely pausing to gather the discarded bracer, and continued out the door. It shut with a soft, final thump.

The quiet closed in again. Mireille stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing.

Then she exhaled a long breath into the waiting silence and walked out the other door, extinguishing the torches with a wave of her hand.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates will slow to 1/week from here on out because of life reasons, so here's a 6000 word chapter to tide you over! shit, i'm long-winded.


	19. Chapter 19

Cullen Stanton Rutherford, son of a Fereldan miller, survivor of Kinloch Hold, former and unofficial Knight-Commander of Kirkwall and current Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, had seen better nights.

At least his headache was gone for the moment. Small blessings.

He’d wiped the last of the blood off his face and dumped most of a flagon of cold water over his head – so cold he’d had to break the ice on top to get it to pour – and that had helped, at least a little, although he was pretty sure there was ice in his hair now. And then he’d hovered over his desk for a while until he realized the damn coat smelled like – like her, now, like elfroot and embrium and something light and delicately floral, when he found himself glancing up and expecting to see her there glaring at him. So he’d left it upstairs on the armor stand and shivered in his shirtsleeves. At least the cold was distracting.

Then he’d decided his desk was really too much of a mess, so he’d spent some time cleaning that up. And tidying the books off his chair so he could actually sit in it. And finally he’d sat down, ostensibly to read over the requisitions. He’d even bothered to put on his reading glasses for once and still couldn’t focus on the words. He put them on and took them off and put them on again, as if they were the problem, resettling the frames on his nose, twiddling them in his fingers, jamming them back over his ears so hard he nearly put his own eye out.

Eventually he snorted in disgust and got up to pace the floor. Of course, this meant he couldn’t even pretend to be doing something else. Which meant he had an excellent chance to think long and hard about – that.

“Stupid,” Cullen said into the crisp silence, rubbing at his neck. “Why did I – let her – ”

But he’d kissed her first, dammit. This was absolutely his own fault.

His lip was still sore from her teeth. And she’d been so _satisfying_ to kiss, so – violently, aggressively wanting, like he’d opened her cage and she’d rushed out ready to eat him alive. She kissed like a dam breaking, and he could still feel her legs locked around his waist, hear her desperate broken voice when he ground his hips against her –

And…he was getting excited again.

Damn it all.

“Maker have mercy,” Cullen muttered, pacing around to the window, because it was a lot colder over there and maybe if he was shivering violently he wouldn’t be able to think about that any more. Apparently, his brain hadn’t gotten that message, though, because it went right on rolling.

Oh, Maker, he’d nearly fucked the _Herald of Andraste_ right there against the wall like – like she was anyone, like she was someone you could use the word “fuck” about _._ That was probably some kind of blasphemy, wasn’t it? It was probably a good thing he’d dropped her. Which was embarrassing enough in and of itself, but possibly less damning than the alternative. _Maker…_ actually, he should probably be asking forgiveness from Andraste herself, come to think of it.

And this was not something you could take to confession. There were sins and there were _sins._ Mother Giselle would most definitely give him a scathing look or two. He could probably write it down, burn it himself, but that would mean it had actually happened and he was holding out a desperate hope that maybe he was just dreaming. (Cullen pinched himself, just in case. It hurt quite a bit. So that was out, then.)

And the Inquisitor was his boss, in case he’d managed to forget who he worked for, which he rather suspected he had given the night’s events. And she was a noblewoman, although you wouldn’t think it by her vocabulary of curses, or by how easy she was to talk to _…_ and she was a mage, to boot, which was somehow the least problematic part of the whole thing.

And let’s not forget: he was _angry_ with her. She had no right to talk about it like she’d been there, like she’d seen what he’d seen, like she could understand from a few minutes of conversation how deeply he’d been cut. She had _no right_ to pry and prod until the last ten years of his life were laid out in a neat line for her perusal. Four years trying to atone for Meredith’s failures as well as his own and this nosy little woman brought him right back to that terrified youth on his first night at the Gallows, sleepless and shaking and determined to never let magic overpower him or anyone else again…but he’d scared her, too, brought her back somewhere she didn’t want to be, and they’d both reacted the only way they knew, hadn’t they? (Cullen shivered as a cold breeze curled around his shoulders, and then eased his fingers off his forearms, where they’d been clutched so hard they left red marks in the skin.)

He’d thought, for a brief shining moment, that he was past it all. That he was getting better. That he’d finally tried hard enough, broken through the wall, that he almost _deserved_ to be free of – of everything, of the yoke of his nightmares, of lyrium, that final tie to Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford of Kirkwall – and she’d torn him off that pedestal and thrown him back down where he belonged. It had been a futile endeavor to start with, perhaps.

And now here he was, with the taste of her in his mouth, angry and confused and very much aroused. Why had he even done it? Just to keep her from picking him apart any further? Or maybe just to stop her from repeating every word that’d run through his head for the past ten years, so much more cutting in her husky voice. Maybe he’d done it to shock her, to take her by surprise, to shut her up. Maybe he’d just lost his damn mind. He’d half forgotten for that moment that she was anything else but infuriating and passionate and gorgeous and…now he was back to that line of thought.

Part of him – and he was pretty sure he knew exactly which part – wondered if there were freckles _everywhere_ on her body.

Cullen snorted in disgust and turned back to the room. He spared the bottom drawer of his desk a long contemplative look, and then shook his head as if that’d dislodge the headache forming right behind his eyes. Hopping back on the wagon because someone had been sarcastic at him – even if that someone was the Inquisitor – would be, well, the second stupidest thing he’d done tonight. (Maybe the first.)

He hadn’t been paying attention to anything but his own circling thoughts, and finally caught the sound of heavy, measured footsteps approaching. It couldn’t be Mireille, at least, she was too light on her feet to make that much noise, and thank the Maker for that because if she came in here right now he wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t take her over the desk and _whoa there,_ that was _not_ a thought to be contemplating right now, he told himself sternly, trying to ignore the twitch of arousal.

Damn it all…Cullen bent over the desk again, scanning the papers. Maybe he could just…pretend to be working intensely and scare off whoever it was. And get back to his crisis in peace.

It would have worked, too, if a scout had come in, but it was Cassandra’s voice out there calling, “Commander?”

“Come in, Seeker,” he called, picking up – something, he couldn’t tell what it read, wasn’t paying enough attention. She did, and closed the door quietly behind her.

“Have Fairbanks’ men settled in yet?” he asked, because it was something he could remember was an issue, and when Cassandra put her hands on his desk and glared at him suspiciously he could have sworn his stomach dropped out through his toes all the way down into the valley.

“Yes. Have you spoken to the Inquisitor yet?”

“To – the Inquisitor?” Oh, Maker’s breath, it was _that_. Oh, Maker, he was…pretty sure it was that. Cullen rubbed at his temple under the glasses, warding off the twinge of pain, and tried to keep himself from sighing in relief. “I – ”

“I presume that is a no? She is leaving again in only days, Commander, and you told me it would be best to consult the Inquisitor on your choice. And that you would speak to her today if time allowed.”

“I recall,” he said crossly, but glaring had no effect on Cassandra.

“Then tell her,” she said, as if everything were as simple as blunt communication. “She is your Inquisitor and one of the best healers of this age. More than that, she is a good woman and I have no doubt she’ll support your decision. What are you afraid of?”

He took off the glasses and rubbed his hand over his face, and tried, very hard, not to think about flushed freckled cheeks and soft fierce lips and – well, didn’t succeed, that was for sure. At least his hand probably hid some of the blush. “I’m – I will. I will tell her. Tomorrow.”

Cassandra gave him a searching look. He dropped his hand to his neck to hide the bruise – where Mireille had _bitten_ him, by the _Maker,_ and he very much hoped the Seeker hadn’t caught a glimpse or he’d never hear the end of it. He managed to scrounge up whatever propriety he still had left and said with a little more conviction, “I will inform her, Cassandra, I promise.”

“Good,” she said, leaning back into a more relaxed stance. “Are you well? You look exhausted.”

“Ah…well enough.” He rubbed at his neck, because it _was_ sore, not just bruised. “Some days are harder than others. The worst may be yet to come, though. They say – well, some truly terrible things, about lyrium withdrawal, and most don’t survive the process.”

“I know what they say.” Cassandra’s face was never particularly soft or kind, but there was compassion in her voice, a quiet respect. And she wasn’t looking at him like she could read his mind like a book anymore, which was a relief given the tenor of his thoughts right now. “I have faith in you, Commander. You are doing the right thing, and you can meet this challenge.”

“You _must_ replace me if I’m not – fit,” he said, warningly. “If I – ”

She reached across the desk and gripped his upraised elbow, a reassurance. “We’ve had this argument before, Cullen, it won’t come to that. You will make it through this. _Tell her._ Perhaps she can help you.”

He sighed in frustration and Cassandra chuckled and let him go. “I realize you are both proud, stubborn asses, but you’ll get over it somehow.”

Cullen sat down, a little harder than he needed to, and the chair complained. “Is everything so simple to you?”

“No, there are certainly more complicated matters in this world. But talking to a woman is not one of them.” She folded her arms again, and he could actually hear her foot tapping on the floor. “And sitting on this secret will solve nothing, and you know that.”

“She is that, I suppose.” He leaned forward on the desk, and considered banging his forehead on it. “I suppose it’s useless agonizing about it, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Cassandra said it like she’d never agonized about anything in her life, which he _knew_ wasn’t true because he’d seen her after the latest installment of her romance serials, but she did a damn fine job of acting like it. Perhaps he should be taking notes.

“Thank you, Seeker. I appreciate your support.”

“You will always have it, no matter your choice, but I believe you can accomplish this.” Cassandra inclined her head. “And yes, Fairbanks’ men are settled, but I will be sure they keep you informed. Goodnight, Commander. Do attempt to get some sleep.”

She shut the door behind her, with a soft click.

Cullen dropped his head down to the desk and shut his eyes. That was not very helpful, because he could still see Mireille pressed against the wall with all that beautiful fury in her dark brown eyes, the mane of silver-threaded black curls hanging rumpled around her shoulders, and now – well, now he knew what she tasted like, a sharp sweet tang, that sarcastic lift to her upper lip pressed hard against his mouth, and he couldn’t unlearn that. He was willing to bet he’d know it for the rest of his life.

And he had to talk to her again tomorrow, and tell her he’d gone off lyrium two months ago. He’d probably have to talk to her the next day, too. And the next. He’d have to write missives to her in the field. He’d have to stop thinking about this at some point.

Honestly, at least he wasn’t thinking about the bottom drawer any more. It was easier to think about her. Not less frustrating, but…easier, somehow. One draught would be one too many, probably, maybe, it was a question he didn’t particularly feel up to answering at the moment with half the blood in his body diverted into impractical areas and a truly impressive headache building up in one eye socket. Thinking about her would just make him frustrated in more ways than one. And that was…marginally better. Emphasis on marginally.

Maker have _mercy,_ what had he started here? What was he _thinking?_ Why had she kissed him right back? Oh, Maker, what did _she_ think about all this…

He groaned into the surface of the desk, as if it was going to do any good, and dug his hands into his hair. Which did, in fact, have ice in it.

With a frustrated growl Cullen stood up and went to retrieve his armor. Maybe Candor was in the stables and he could take her for a walk. Or maybe someone would need to talk to him about something outside his office. Maybe someone would have a crisis that could be solved by hitting it with a sword, that would be nice.

Maybe if he jumped into a snowbank his coat would stop smelling like _her,_ he mused, stepping out into the cold night. Could be worth a try.

 

* * *

 

Mireille Trevelyan, Ostwick noblewoman in theory, Circle mage turned Lowtown apostate in practice, diplomat, healer, survivor – Senior Enchanter, Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste – had seen worse nights.

Frankly, any night she wasn’t sleeping in the wilderness hiding from rogue Templars or bunking down in a Lowtown attic with an ear to the door was a marked improvement on the past few years. So really, what right did she have to complain?

She’d gotten up to her quarters without meeting anyone, which was a small miracle even at this time of evening, and peeled herself out of her sweaty leathers in favor of the familiar comfort of her enchanter’s coat. And then she’d built up the fire, because it was still cold in this stupid tower. Winter would be coming on soon, far sooner up here than it ever had in Ostwick. She’d managed to forget about the ever-present chill with her hands tangled up in Cullen’s coat and their mouths pressed together –

Nope. Nope, no, she was not going to think about _that._

Her frostbitten fingers were a lot more flexible than they had been even a week ago, and she dug them into her warm scalp and started to braid her hair into something stupidly complicated, so she’d have to focus on exactly how each strand needed to overlap. Which meant her thoughts couldn’t really wander off to other matters. Like how her hair smelled faintly like cedar and musty fur on top of jasmine. Like the sweet lingering desire in her thighs, in her stomach, like the recollection of his hips rolling against hers in a long aching motion, the clasp of his hand around the back of her neck –

“What did I _just_ say?” she muttered, dropping the lopsided braid in disgust.

For a while she tried lying in bed, curling up under the blankets with a large book on alchemical preparations and her ponytail slung over one shoulder. She read several times about the tertiary properties of black lotus. Then read it a few more times to make sure she’d understood. Then admitted to herself that she really wasn’t absorbing any of this information anyway and shut the book with a snap.

Mireille buried her face in the pillow and groaned loudly, just in case it would help. It didn’t.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t thought about it. She _certainly_ had thought about it. She just hadn’t thought about it seriously. Or like this, as the endcap to an argument she hadn’t intended to have in the first place, with her stomach clenched around long-healed wounds.

She’d tried to move on from Ostwick and honestly she had thought she’d succeeded. Shit, she’d held swords, touched them, picked them up…and she’d been around plenty of Templars in Kirkwall, although she’d tried to avoid them for the most part. She’d walked to the Conclave with Templars. She’d trusted them for most of her life, although admittedly, not very much recently.

But seeing the face of someone she trusted curl up in that terrible detached way, as a blade thrust toward her – Mireille bit her aching lip and rolled over to stare at the ceiling, breathing very slowly and evenly, so her heart wouldn’t pound its way out of her chest again. She tucked her hands against her stomach and felt it rise and fall.

Breathe, breathe…

Breathe, and then think.

She did trust him. Maybe that was why she’d been so furious, actually. He was annoyingly sanctimonious sometimes, he was obstinate and stuffy and overprotective and enjoyed her occasional missteps far too much, but she trusted him. He’d do what needed to be done. He’d helped bring Haven to safety while she confronted Corypheus, he cared about the recruits and the soldiers under him, he was genuinely good at his job and that was a relief because she was no general. It was, possibly, a little too easy to put your trust in someone like that.

He’d said he wouldn’t hurt her, and he hadn’t. She’d just…thought he would. She’d thought he was someone else, in that brief frozen moment with the sword in his hand. And she’d said some nasty things – although, really, she’d stand by most of them. He was _wrong._ He was lying to himself, tucking away all this secret pain like it was his pyre to build, his burden to carry all noble and silent, like if he just didn’t think about it, it’d go away eventually – and that was bullshit, because all avoiding the subject ever got you was a nasty surprise when you realized the world hadn’t forgotten who you were. She knew that. She _knew_ that, she’d had to break up that fight between her apprentices and Brynn’s Templars on the way to Kirkwall when six apprentices and four Templars tried to kill each other, she’d had to kill people she’d known all her life to protect other people she’d known all her life. She’d had to realize she perhaps didn’t know any of them at all.

What fucking irony that he’d ask her if she knew what it felt like to realize you could never protect anyone. Oh, she had probably gone too far, prodded too deep, but – Mireille stared at the ceiling and knotted her fingers together tightly across her stomach, over the long ridge of scar tissue.

All right, yes, she’d gone a little too far. So had he, every word out of his mouth a kick in the chest, but she’d be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t done the same fucking thing.

Part of her wished she’d gone just a little farther, because if she had maybe she wouldn’t be thinking about this, maybe she’d still be down there, all these circling thoughts swept away by the heat of his lips, by teeth and tongue and soft needy sounds –

Mireille hauled herself out of bed, although it took two tries. Maybe she could – but if she left, she _might_ run into him, and it was a fifty-fifty shot that she’d try to climb him like a tree or start running until she hit Highever.

Fuck.

She picked up her staff and ran through the standard battlemage forms a few times, which made her sweaty and sexually frustrated instead of just plain old sexually frustrated, and leaned on her staff for a minute to think.

Dammit, this was not _important._ She had – things to do. People to save. A whole damn world to save.

She’d leave Skyhold in three days and make the trip to Crestwood, meet with Hawke’s Warden. Learn more about Corypheus – and just thinking about that _thing_ made her mouth run dry with terror. She’d go to the Winter Palace after that and be diplomatic, prevent an assassination she’d seen in a dark future via time magic. She’d close some Fade rifts, kill some demons, they were everywhere in Thedas now. And those never got less horrible, not even when they were physically present, no possibility of possessing you.

And she’d track down Samson, the red lyrium general, the Kirkwall Templar, and she’d probably have to kill him, or at least have to try. If she could. Apparently if someone shoved a sword at her she could get out of the way now, even if she had to have a panic attack afterward. (She pressed a palm against her stomach again. Just to be safe.)

Shit, her life was really terrifying nowadays. Maybe it’d be better to think about Cullen.

Actually, that was kind of terrifying too, but in a very different way.

“Ugh.”

She pushed herself through the battlemage forms again, one after the other, twirling the staff through her fingers. It was new, made of the yew branch she’d gotten from the courtyard, but the balance wasn’t quite right. Of course, it did need a blade still, to balance the weight of the citrine set into the top…

There was a little bit of blood dried onto the head of the staff, where the wood was still rough and sharp, where she’d ripped it across Cullen’s skin in a desperate attempt to defend herself.

Mireille huffed out a breath. Her next strike wrenched her bad shoulder and she pushed on through it, whipping the staff hard across her body, high, low, high, high, low, until she couldn’t hear anything but her own pounding heartbeat. Finally she had to stop and gasp for air. Her fingers had clenched so tight around the wood that she couldn’t release them, and she sat down on the end of the bed before her shaking knees could give out.

Maybe she could go visit someone, get out of her own head…but most of the people she knew currently were incorrigible gossip hounds, to put it lightly. If she went down to finish her paperwork with Varric he’d know within two minutes that she’d come _this_ close to getting laid tonight. (It almost hurt to use the phrase, because that was not sufficient for – for – whatever had just happened, whatever they’d started in that white-hot little moment. It was either too crass or not quite crass enough.)

Mireille rolled the staff between her palms and gave herself just a minute, free of guilt, because maybe she could get it out of her system by thinking about it just a bit more. About his big hands hauling her up off the ground, braced hot and heavy around her thighs. About the rippling scar through his lip she could still taste between her teeth. About the soft hoarse murmur of his voice in her ear, the sharp gasp when she bit his neck, the dark desperate hunger in his lips – he’d kissed her like a thunderclap, like a tornado kisses the ground, destructive and furious and satisfying and not even close to enough. And Maker help her, she’d fallen on her ass, which tended to ruin the mood, and if she hadn’t –

Her brain filled in the gaps (and paused to snigger at the innuendo, to boot) in full color. With sound effects. Very realistic sound effects, oh Maker. Mireille shivered from head to toe and sincerely considered sliding a hand into her smalls to finish the job.

Maker’s _blighted_ balls.

She could try and drug herself into sleep, but that usually just ended in a groggy morning and a headache she couldn’t afford to suffer. Besides, it wasn’t worth wasting a sleeping draught just for something this foolish. She could go drink until she passed out, there was a bottle of wine on her desk, in fact. But apparently her subconscious was a filthy pervert, given the night’s events. So that would probably end poorly. And everyone she’d managed to surround herself with was much, much too perceptive by far, and they’d _know._ Sure, she’d checked in the mirror four times now to make sure her face didn’t look like she’d been pressed gasping against the hot skin of her fucking commander’s neck less than an hour ago, but they’d figure it out anyway.

Oh, but…the apprentices wouldn’t, they were a bit too young and absorbed in their own teenage woes to worry about hers. And the Commander tended to stay away from the mages’ tower – it was, after all, well in hand between Fiona (despite all her flaws, the woman was a decent administrator) and Vivienne and Mireille herself. It was late, but not that late. Mages tend to be night owls anyway.

Mireille straightened her coat and tucked a few errant curls back into her ponytail, wiped away the sweat from her face. Yes, she’d go and see how things were doing over there. She’d spend a couple of hours working with the apprentices who were still up. Maybe they could use some help in the apothecary, even? And there were at least three ways that she knew of to travel through the castle to the mages’ tower and not even set foot outside, which would minimize the risk of running into someone she didn’t want to run into.

All right, maybe a part of her wanted to run into him. It was the same part that was wondering how he’d look spread out on her bed with a line of bite-mark bruises across his naked collarbones and the soft pale sheets tangled up between his legs and _all right then_ that was _more_ than enough of that _thank you._

She shook herself, threw the long tail of her hair over her shoulder, and then set out briskly for the mages’ tower. Maybe eventually she’d stop thinking about this. Hopefully. Otherwise she was going to have a perpetual cramp in her forearm and a lot of sleepless nights ahead of her.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we won't hear from cullen's POV super often in this fic, but sometimes it's nice to have a little parallelism! 
> 
> couple of notes about my headcanon chantry practices: i like to think of the chantry as pseudo-catholic, so i presume they have confession of some kind. there's mention of andrastians burning papers with their sins on them as well, a symbolic confession to the Maker. of course, Thedas has no concept of the phrase "your cross to bear" without christianity in the picture, so i picked "your pyre to build" -- figuring that since Andraste has pretty strong parallels to Jesus, she might have been forced to build the pyre she was burned on in lieu of carrying a cross to the hill.


	20. Chapter 20

“Hold _still,_ Inquisitor.”

“Well, if you’d let me take a coffee break, perhaps I’d stop moving so much. Ow.”

“The pins are why I have asked the Inquisitor to hold still,” the tailor sniffed, adjusting the fit of the corset around her waist with quick little tugs. She lifted Mireille’s arms up and pushed them into the silky shirt. There was a substantial flutter of fussing and tucking and pinning that subsided only when Josephine crossed the bedroom holding a steaming mug and pressed it into Mireille’s hands, at which she nodded gratefully.

From the couch, Vivienne tilted her head and said, “I think that should do quite nicely, Madame Fournier.”

The tailor huffed, stepping back. She was a very huffy little person. Mireille had a feeling she’d have liked the woman if she didn’t have several pins pricking at her – she had a wonderfully forceful air about her, especially for a very small Orlesian elf. “I suppose it will suffice, in our limited time.”

“There’s quite a lot of…” Mireille took a sip of the coffee and gestured across her chest with the other hand.

“The Game incorporates a certain amount of – ” Josephine finished with the same gesture across her chest, clearly searching for the right word.

“Décolletage,” Fournier the tailor supplied, tugging the ends of the shirt down.

“And fancy underthings to boot.” Mireille took a much larger sip before the mug was removed from her hands again. “Or to booty, maybe.”

Josephine gave her a look, although there might have been some humor deep down. Very deep down. “Remind me not to schedule anything for you before you’ve had a chance to have breakfast, Inquisitor.”

“I remind you every time you schedule me something before breakfast.” Mireille squared her shoulders back obediently, as the tailor rearranged the collar around several acres of freckly cleavage. “Fancy smalls are part of the Game, then?”

“They are part of life,” Vivienne said, and sat forward. “And therefore part of the Game. A strong foundation can support anything you choose to build upon it.”

Mireille glanced down at her own chest and raised an eyebrow. She _swore_ Josephine giggled. Vivienne sipped at her own coffee, her eyelids creased in amusement. “Think metaphorically, my dear. You are a woman, which alone is a powerful thing, and some will underestimate you if they’re distracted by that undeniable fact. You are also a mage and an Aequitarian, which we can be more subtle in reminding the attendees of…and you are the Herald of Andraste,” she added, as the tailor draped a length of dark fabric over her shoulders. “We build one image on another until you are a complete picture, the Inquisitor.”

Josephine handed Mireille the mug back. “Pragmatically speaking, Inquisitor, you’ll be standing much of the night and you’ll likely appreciate the additional back support compared to your usual wear. It will also offer some protection against light weaponry, should you need to fight for any reason.”

“Steel boning,” the tailor agreed, taking advantage of Mireille’s raised arms to pin the fabric under her shoulders. It felt like some kind of cloak, although she couldn’t quite see in the mirror from here. “No armorsmith am I, but it will protect your vitals lest you encounter a broadsword or a well-aimed arrow.”

“You know I’ve got vitals _above_ my ribs, too?”

There was a soft _tap-tap_ at the balcony door, which made Mireille turned and look up until the tailor rapped lightly on her skull with her knuckles and pushed her shoulders back into line. Josephine was faster, and passed out of her peripheral vision as she moved across the sunlit room. “You’ve a raven, Inquisitor.”

“Perhaps Dorian has another research question?” Vivienne asked, sitting up just a bit with interest. “I am sure we can arrange another thaumaturgical debate, if he wishes to attempt to prove me wrong again.”

“Only if it doesn’t devolve into practical demonstrations this time, please.” There was a soft rattly sound as the door to the balcony opened, then shut again. The raven croaked. Josephine strolled back into view with the bird on her arm. “Inquisitor? Here you are.”

A small square of paper – it looked like it had been folded about eight times before being tied to the bird’s leg – was pressed into Mireille’s hand. She tried not to move her shoulders as she unfolded it. In scrawled capitals – written hastily enough that the ink had smeared a little – it read:

_Inquisitor – I have an important Templar-related matter to discuss with you, if you have a moment today. Please come by my office at your earliest convenience, if you would._

_Cmdr Cullen Rutherford._

Mireille, very quickly and very carefully, schooled her face into a neutral expression, so she could think about this – rationally.

Templar-related matters? The first thought in her head was that they hadn’t had _any_ incidents recently, although a few weeks ago there had been that confrontation between one of the enchanters and a Templar recruit. But it had been easy enough to mediate once she’d threatened to hit them both over the head. Unless he was talking about Willow’s most recent argument with Beckett, but that seemed to be well in hand too. The apprentice had chattered excitedly about the Templar’s way with birds all last night, and Leliana had quietly mentioned that she should really stop sending children up to see the ravens without warning her first.

The second thought, hard on the heels of the first, was that it was some kind of reference to – _that_ , but honestly, that made just about no sense. If it was a coded reference, she couldn’t decipher it. And if he was being metaphorical or coy or something he was going to regret it.

Possibly she was overthinking this.

After all, she was – and it was still a little strange to think about – the head of the Inquisition, the one in charge of all this nonsense. It wasn’t unreasonable for the commander of the armed forces at her disposal to need to talk with her about something that didn’t need to be said around a war table. Right? Right, absolutely. Nothing odd about that, no reason to feel so – so nervous and tingly. That was probably just the fact that she was laced into a bloody corset designed to, uh, enhance, to say the least. Fuck, don’t think about that.

“Inquisitor?” Josephine asked, coming back into view.

Mireille blinked a couple of times, and then was poked with a pin. “Ow. Sorry, I was, ah…trying not to move.”

“You did not succeed,” the tailor murmured behind her, just at the edge of hearing.

Josephine had a slightly worried look on her face and Mireille shook her head, prompting another poke. “Nothing important, just a matter to discuss with the Commander later. Templar something or other. It would be a bit early for Dorian to be up and in the library, I suppose.”

“Ah, I see.” Josephine accepted the note back, glancing at it. The raven had been placed on the end table and was plucking at a small pouch. It might have been Mireille’s snack pouch, actually. “Shall I pen a response, since you are a bit occupied at the moment? And attempt to work it into your schedule?”

“No, that’s all right,” Mireille said, just a little too hastily. “No, I’ll just…pop down there after this. No rush.”

“After this you have very kindly agreed to greet the Comtesse de Roquefort and her entourage personally, as she has promised us quite a lot of money.”

“After…that?”

“I believe Leliana has claimed your time for lunch to go over the preliminary reports from our spies in Val Royeaux.” On the table, the raven managed to get the pouch open and spilled dried blueberries across several books. Damn, now she wouldn’t have a snack for later.

Mireille sighed. “All right, well, I’m sure it can wait a few hours.” She spotted the very faint raise of one of Vivienne’s eyebrows, though, and gave the First Enchanter what she thought was a very cool collected sort of look. It might not have been. Josephine had the grace to look down at her paperboard, but there was a little tiny grin hovering at the corner of her mouth.

The tailor turned Mireille around on the podium, which was really a good thing, as she’d started to blush. Fournier actually winked at her as she bustled around to the other side and adjusted the collar of the cloak around her neck. Somewhere behind her Josephine said, “Oh, that’s lovely.”

“Thank you, madame. I do what I can.” The tailor came around again to tug at the fastening of the cloak over Mireille’s chest, as Vivienne made a soft comment to Josephine about – something. Mireille wasn’t actually listening by this point, at least half because she was concentrating on not blushing.

The tailor didn’t even glance up at her. “Have you finished blushing yet, or shall I keep you turned about?” she asked in a low murmur.

“We are definitely giving you a raise.” Mireille stared up at the ceiling, willing her cheeks to coolness. It wasn’t working very well.

“Don’t fret, Inquisitor, you are paying me very handsomely already. As you should be,” Fournier said, raising Mireille’s arms and doing something esoteric and prickly with pins that made the cloak fit more snugly on her shoulders. “I am very good at what I do. Now, would you kindly hold still?”

Mireille obediently held still, and got pricked anyway. She scowled at the ceiling. This was shaping up to be a very long morning.

 

* * *

 

She was right: it was a long morning. It was a long _day._ It was full of several comtesses and attached retainers, a review of major players in Halamshiral and their political affiliations, then the latest report from Crestwood came in and there was a long conversation with Dorian in the library about various flavors of undead, then several hours in the apothecary, and then she’d finally managed to swipe three or four meat pies from the dining hall when a scout rushed past her calling for the surgeon because a soldier had somehow managed to crack his head open on the battlement steps.

So she’d stuffed an entire meat pie in her mouth and taken care of _that,_ and she was almost done – working by magelight as the sun fell too far to properly light the surgeon’s camp – when the steady glow dimmed unexpectedly and she said crossly, “Move.”

The shadow moved obediently. “Apologies, Inquisitor – Lieutenant, is this why you didn’t report down to camp earlier?”

Mireille froze, and the lieutenant wincing under her touch gave her a strange look before he attempted to salute. “Sorry, Commander. Slipped on the ice.”

Stitches. Focus. She pulled the little ball of wavering white light closer. “I’ll give him back to you in a moment, Commander. Cracked his skull, minor concussion, but head wounds tend to bleed.”

There was a soft annoyed grunt from somewhere above her head. “We may need to start salting the battlements. That’s the third slip in as many weeks.”

“Salt?” Mireille said absently, tilting the lieutenant’s head to the side. “Hold still, Lieutenant. You’re doing fine. Still numb?” The man’s eyes were watering, and she pressed her fingers against his forehead and pushed a little more magic into the wound, just to dampen the pain.

“Salt melts ice,” Cullen said, and she heard him shift from foot to foot. He was hovering over her left shoulder, just close enough to block the chilly breeze, and it was awfully distracting for someone trying to stitch a man back together. “Cinders might also give some improved traction…it may be a bit messy, though.”

She bit her lip and finished the stitches, tying it off gently. “Make yourself useful, Commander, hand me the spindleweed paste. It’s on the table, pink jar.”

“And says spindleweed on it, I see,” he remarked, but he did move and then the jar was in her hand. “Anything else?”

“Elfroot. Green jar.” She spread the paste on the lieutenant’s forehead with two clean fingers, over the stitches, and passed the jar back. “And those bandages. And the little scissors – not those ones, the really small ones, thank you. Lieutenant, you’re a touch concussed, so I want you to come right back up here if you get dizzy or fall unconscious or have a nasty headache. Don’t be brave. Be careful on ice, don’t pick at the stitches, let me or the surgeon check them until they’re ready to come out.” She daubed on the elfroot, handed it back to Cullen to free her hands, and then wound a bandage across the fresh stitches. “Change the bandage if you get it wet or twice a day if you don’t. I’m going to give you this roll, it should be plenty. If you need help ask me or the surgeon. Got it?”

The lieutenant nodded, and she tied the ends of the bandage around his head and helped him sit up, moving the little magelight to check his pupils again. “All right. You’re good to go.”

Cullen leaned forward and helped the man to his feet. “Take a day or two to recover, Lieutenant. You’ll want to rest. Sergeant Beryl is heading down to camp, let’s get you to her…”

Mireille let the task of cleaning up absorb her – washed her hands in the bowl of steaming water poured from the kettle, sterilized her needles again, rewound her thread, repacked the jars and bandages into her bag – and when Cullen said, “I presume this is why you haven’t been by my office yet, Inquisitor,” she jumped and very nearly spilled the entire bowl of wash-water onto her feet.

She gave him a suspicious look. But then – the letter, from this morning. “Oh, _balls,_ I…definitely forgot about that.”

“I can see that.” Was he blushing? Oh, Maker, was _she_ blushing? “Well, if you have a moment now, I do – that is, ah. If you have a moment. Inquisitor.”

“Unless someone else slips on ice, I might have a moment,” she said, and waved a hand through the magelight to dissipate it. “Templar matters? I haven’t heard about any incidents recently. Except the one yesterday, but that was simple enough to solve, I can’t imagine it was – major enough to warrant a meeting about.” She was talking just a little bit too fast, and couldn’t quite figure out how not to.

Cullen had already set off toward the battlement stairs, and she followed him around the patch of ice. And the bloodstain, which honestly would be a better warning than the chalked sign that said ICE HERE, WATCH IT. “Ah, no. That’s all been relatively peaceful, actually.”

“Then what…” Mireille stopped on the landing, to let a scout move down the stairs, and caught up with Cullen at the top so she could hiss, “Please tell me this is actually a Templar matter. Please, please tell me you’re not being – metaphorical, or something.”

“No, I’m – it _is_ a Templar matter.” He glared down at her, pushing the door to one of the abandoned towers open. “A – a former Templar matter.”

“Then what is it?”

He strode through the empty tower (and thank the Maker that it wasn’t the one they used for combat training) and paused before the other door. “Could you kindly wait to speak about this until we actually reach my office?”

“Why?” she asked, hurrying to catch up. Stupid short legs. “Because if this is about – ”

Cullen strode through the heavy door and across the battlement, completely ignoring her, and opened the door to his office for her. Which was kind, but not an answer, not at all, and his ears were turning red. “Cullen.”

“It’s not about _–_ about _that,”_ he snapped, and shut the door behind them both, reaching over her head to do it. “Maker’s breath, woman, I – oh, blast it. I stopped taking lyrium two months ago, just before the Inquisition was formed. That’s what I intended to tell you.”

Mireille stared at him.

It had taken something out of him, to say that – deflated him a bit – and he was still standing right there half a foot away with his hand pressed against the door above her head and his shoulders all hunched with defiance. Daring her to say something, afraid, maybe, of what she’d say – and what _could_ you say to that? Nobody _left_ the Templar Order. It wasn’t done. You either died on duty or you were kicked out and left to rot on the street, begging for coins to buy dust with – she’d treated a few addicts in Kirkwall, stragglers in the aftermath of the rebellion, and invariably they’d wasted away or stopped coming to her door after a few months. And once she’d found one lying in the alley behind the tavern, a once-muscular man with broken glass stuck to his tongue, and she’d helped him the only way she could, taken the pain away at last –

She blinked and opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Cullen was staring right back down at her, searching her face. Finally a weak grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Well. If I’d known that would render you speechless I probably would have told you much earlier. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to inform you, I should have said something months ago, but, well, you – the Inquisitor should know about this. I did say I wasn’t a Templar any longer. Perhaps I could have been clearer about the implications.” There was still a tremor deep down in his voice, a long pause between each sentence as he searched for her reaction in her face.

Mireille blinked a couple more times and leaned back against the solid wood of the door. Outside she could hear birdsong, the scuffle of feet on the battlements, the soft faraway sound of a dog barking – probably Candor chasing a bird again. Skyhold was still here, somewhere in the background.

“Cassandra knows already,” Cullen continued, folding his arms across his chest. “She was there when I made the choice, we have an agreement. If I become unfit, if the – if the withdrawal leaves me unable to lead, she will remove me from command, no questions.” He paused, swallowed. “I hope that’s acceptable. I don’t want to endanger the troops, the Inquisition, if I can’t – if I’m not suited to the task.”

Finally her brain scraped together enough coherency to ask, _“Why?”_  

He wasn’t quite looking at her, focused on the doorframe above her head, reciting the words like he was reading off a card. “Because I’ve been bound to the Order my whole life and I don’t support what it’s become. After Kirkwall – I – ” Cullen stopped and frowned, glanced down at her, then half-turned away, his fingers tapping on the metal of his pauldrons. From here she could see the neat stitching across the tear in the back of his glove and the Sword of Mercy stamped into his vambraces, just a faint shadow on the metal, half-hidden in the fold of his arms. “I’ve seen what lyrium can do to people, I wonder what it’s done – to me, I suppose. And I want nothing more to do with that life. Even if it – if things go poorly.”

Mireille considered him for a minute, the well-hidden clench of jaw, the faint squint as he turned his head toward the window and then away from where the afternoon sunlight streamed into the tower. Headaches. That was the most major symptom, yes, and light sensitivity seemed likely. The deep bags under his eyes, insomnia? She’d assumed he was just lily-pale like half of Ferelden but perhaps he shouldn’t really be that wan… “Are they going poorly? Will they?”

He glanced across her and away again, his jaw tight. “It’s – it’s difficult to say. It’s…relentless. I don’t know, for sure, how much worse it will become. Have you…”

“Yes,” she said absently, and hadn’t she just seen a book on lyrium draughts in the library somewhere? Who’d done research on a thing like that? The Templars, probably, and they were notoriously guarded about their research, but perhaps they could send agents to the broken Circles to see if they’d left anything behind…Her feet moved automatically, carrying her right past Cullen to pace the floor. “I’ve seen several cases before. Some of the symptoms can be easily treated – the headaches are nasty, I know, but a preventative potion can take the edge off, and dampening the pain magically seems to help more but only temporarily, which is strange, but maybe it’s because lyrium is magical in itself? Perhaps they act similarly in the body?” And was it stored somewhere in the body, did it build up? That could explain the long withdrawal, if the body needed to uses its resources to break down lyrium. Where would it collect? Oh, Maker, did it _crystallize_ like in the Red Templars? Oh, _Maker’s ass_ she hoped not, that was – that was not good. That was a bad thought. That was for later, she could treat the symptoms in the meantime while she figured that out. “Headaches aren’t too difficult to control once we find the right formula, but the mental symptoms are harder to treat. Do you have nightmares?”

Cullen seemed taken aback by this sudden flood of words, and stammered, “I – yes.”

“Yes, I thought so. Not much to do about that. There are herbs for dreamless sleep that could help, though. Then…lemon myrtle and chamomile, perhaps, for a calming effect? I’ve heard meditation is supposed to be helpful for that kind of thing, as well. Mental balance and all.” She’d never been much good at the mental thing – physical problems, yes, no issue there, but psychology was hard. You had to get your mind right first and then get someone else’s mind right, and Mireille felt like she understood herself pretty well, but other people were _hard._

“Inquisitor – ”

“It’s better than nothing, certainly, and then perhaps a little embrium for spice and to enhance the anxiolytic properties of the myrtle. Ginger if you like it, ginger helps everything down.” Elfroot wouldn’t hurt, but it might not help, either – it was a decent topical analgesic, but not powerful except in large oral doses and those tended to have a certain…laxative effect with repeated use. “You seem like you’re sensitive to light, assuming you’ve got a headache right now, which I think you might. I’m not totally sure what to do about that. Perhaps we can get you a blindfold or something. Or perhaps dark glasses, if you need to be outside…Did you taper off the dose? You must have, you’re not a raving lunatic at the moment. How long did it take? I have to tell you, I’ve never seen a case last less than several months, and they were not good cases, but if you’ve tapered it off slowly the symptoms shouldn’t be as severe. I think.” And how long would it last, anyway? Perhaps best not to tell him she’d never seen a successful case. Perhaps he already knew that.

“Inquisitor…”

What did she have in her herb kit right now? Mireille opened her satchel, still pacing, and sorted through the vials and jars and bottles. Oh, hello, a little cheesecloth sack, perfect. She began to tip dried herbs into the bag. “Willows are all over the Graves, we could write up a requisition for the bark, I don’t keep a lot of it around. Tastes nasty but it’s an excellent pain reliever and it’ll help prevent the headaches from getting too bad. It’s toxic in too-large doses, though, so we’ll have to supplement with something else. Spindleweed might help. We might need to test a few different recipes and see what works best. Do you have a mug? Oh, Maker, a _clean_ mug,” she added crossly, looking into it. A little fire to sanitize the clay, water from the big flagon on the desk, heat from her palm and she dropped in the bag as the water began to steam. “Let this steep for a while. We can work on a more exact dosage later, but for your mass this should be good to start with. I should start writing this down...”

“Mireille,” Cullen said, exasperated.

“What?” she asked, coming to a stop in front of him again, the mug still cupped in her hands. “I have to make up for being struck dumb somehow.”

He rubbed at his neck. “And you’ve done that admirably, but – I am not asking you to take care of this, I’m – you should be aware of the situation. That’s _all._ You have enough to do without worrying about this, Inquisitor.”

“Yes, nothing to worry about at all, lyrium withdrawal _never_ kills people,” Mireille said, and set the mug on the desk.

“I know what it does.” His fingers came up to the bridge of his nose, and then he glanced down at her and folded his arms again, his hunched shoulders under the furry ruff looking rather like a dog with its hackles up. “But this is not your problem.”

“Bullshit. You told a healer you’re going through withdrawal and you’re clearly in pain, what did you think I was going to say? I can’t just sit and watch you try and manage this yourself, not when I’ve got the training to make it easier.” She stepped closer, and he glanced away from her again. “Do you really like suffering in silence _that much?_ Is it fun for you?”

Cullen stared up at the ceiling and muttered, “Andraste, give me strength,” in a tone that suggested that he’d like to finish the sentence with “to deal with your fucking Herald.”

“Come off it. Let me help you.” She reached out and – stopped herself, just barely, from laying a hand on his arm, diverted it into a punctuating gesture. “This is the one thing I’m actually good at, Cullen. I’ve been a healer a lot longer than I’ve been Inquisitor. If I can make this easier on you, and anyone else who goes through it, I’m going to. If this is your decision I’m going to support it however I can. Don’t fight me on this. I’ll win.”

“If only by wearing me down.” He huffed out a rather long-suffering sigh and looked down at her again, and Mireille realized that she’d just closed the distance between them quite effectively, and that his upper lip was twitching, and that she really, very much, wanted to remind herself exactly how his mouth tasted, pressed against hers.

Fuck.

She stepped back instead, on the pretense of picking up the mug, and Cullen took a step back at the same time, looking away from her. “How is that headache, by the way?”

“It’s fine,” he said,

“You’re going to have to work with me here, Rutherford.”

Cullen shut his eyes. “All right, it’s…less than pleasant. Yes, I do find I’m sensitive to light when the headaches are particularly bad, and there’s some nausea associated with it as well. Cold seems to help, as does darkness. And quiet.” He began to tick items off on his fingers, eyes still shut. “If there’s a sleeping draught that doesn’t last for two days straight, I’d be happy to try it, but I’d prefer not to be groggy when I wake, it’s difficult to work. I’ve found very little to take the edge off the pain but I’d be first to admit I don’t know a tenth what you do about apothecary matters, so I will defer to your judgment there. And yes, I did taper off the dose over the course of a month’s travel. I took my last dose the day of the Conclave. Seems a bit inauspicious now, I suppose.”

Mireille raised her eyebrows. “You _were_ listening.”

“Yes, I was. I do listen when you speak,” he said, opening his eyes to gaze down at her with vague amusement, and that quiet rumbled statement sent harmonics all the way down her spine. Oh, _balls._

“Sometimes I wonder,” she said, and handed him the mug. And hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Drink.”

He drank. And immediately made a face into the mug, and then presumably caught the look she was giving him, because he drained it.

“That should start working in a few minutes.” Mireille circled around to his desk and found a sheet of paper and a pen. “And if it doesn’t, we can spot-check with magical healing and adjust the dose upward from there. You may need a varied dose depending on the day. I’m going to mix you up a few different things, but I’ll leave instructions and recipes, and Adan can help you adjust if need be. Vivienne can, too. And Enchanter Reva, and…I’ll write a few names down for you.” She bit the end of the pen, thinking, then scratched out a few notes. “Keep track of your symptoms, all right? All of them. Even if they’re messy. I promise I’ve seen worse. Balls,” she added, because she’d just written that last sentence down instead of noting how much embrium had been in that teabag. “Send me updates, if you would, I can probably work out something to manage the various symptoms as they crop up. Make sure you _eat,_ and drink – your body can’t fight this without strength. Sleep if you can. If you can’t, we’ll work on that too.”

 “Thank you,” Cullen said, just a little too softly to be properly begrudging, and Mireille glanced up at him.

He wasn’t looking at her, twirling the emptied mug between his fingers, standing half in a bar of afternoon sunlight that gilded his hair and caught along the shadows under his eyes and gleamed hard off his vambraces, hiding the Templar emblem behind blinding light. There was a muscle twitching in his jaw. He looked like he’d been placed there by a slightly eccentric sculptor, beautiful and hard-planed and very, very tired.

He walked over to the desk and set the mug down, and now that he wasn’t twiddling it she could see his hands shaking.

Mireille shook herself and dragged her attention back to her notes, jotted down a few names at the bottom of the page, and flapped the paper in the air to let the ink dry. It gave her enough time to line up the words on her tongue. “You’re trying to break an addiction that kills most people while commanding an army to save all of Thedas from a darkspawn with delusions of grandeur. It’s either very brave of you or very stupid, but either way, I’m going to help you.”

Cullen exhaled, bracing his hands on the desk. “It may be more the latter than the former. But I appreciate it. You – ah, your help.” He looked up and frowned, and his voice went from soft and uncertain to firmly unamused. “Although I think that smug look is rather uncalled for.”

“Mm, I don’t.” She folded the paper, back and forth, and then carefully tore off the portion with her recipe notes on it. “It’s nice when you admit I’m right about something.”

“Yes, so you’ve mentioned.” And to her utter surprise he put his hand over hers, the stitching across the tear in his glove creaking slightly. “Really, you…you didn’t have to help me. Certainly not after…well. Thank you.”

Suddenly it was very hard to breathe. Mireille swallowed, or tried to. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. “I told you, it’s – it’s what I do. It’s just what I am. And, I mean. Just because you’re – just because _I_ don’t – well, I don’t want you to fail if I can help it. So, you’re welcome.” She squeezed his fingertips, the only part of his hand she could reach with his palm on top of hers. It seemed like the right thing to do. Under her hand the desk flickered green, reflecting off the Anchor.

“Mireille,” Cullen said – and behind that there was amusement, and fear, and exhaustion, and a hundred other things all tangled up in one half-whispered word – and then there was a knock at the door that made both of them jump several feet apart in absolute terror.

“Evening reports,” the scout called, and pushed open the door. “And some new requisitions for you, Commander – oh! Inquisitor, good evening, Your Worship. Should I – ?”

Mireille raised her hands. “Don’t worry, I was just leaving. Commander, I’ll – send that along, probably tonight or tomorrow morning. Keep me updated.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.” Cullen said it just a little too quietly. Amazingly only the tips of his ears were red, although they were doing a wonderful job trying to make up for the paleness of the rest of his face. “I will. Good evening.”

The scout bowed a touch too deeply and held the door as Mireille walked through it, out onto the walkway to the rotunda. It closed behind her around a snatch of conversation about snowfall in the pass.

A chill breeze ruffled her coat, tickled the little loose curls at the nape of her neck.

Mireille rubbed her left hand. A little green light sparked off it, barely visible through the half-glove. She stood there for a long moment, eyes glazed, and then shuddered and strode off toward the castle. Toward the library.

It had been a _long_ time since there’d been a problem she could solve via research and alchemy, and she wasn’t about to let it go to waste.

 

* * *

 


	21. Chapter 21

Right now, Mireille wasn’t all that sure she liked traveling. Seeing interesting places and new people was all well and good when it didn’t involve fighting animated corpses (Dorian had insisted that because they’d been drowned they were technically draugr, but she’d been slapped into a puddle by one about ten seconds later, so it really hadn’t stuck in her mind). And based on where she’d been so far, most of southern Thedas was just soggy and demon-filled. At least the perpetual Crestwood rain had washed off most of the ichor at this point, and the undead had mostly gone back to being regular dead once she’d sealed the rift under the drained lake…

The stench of black rotten blood still lingered on her leathers, though, and coupled with the on-and-off drizzle and the aching bruises on her ribs, it wasn’t exactly improving her mood. So when Bull peeked over the edge of the hill and muttered, “Red Templars,” she groaned and leaned her forehead against the head of her staff. “Really?”

“Yup. Five of ‘em, that I can see. Might be more up the hill.”

“Fantastic,” Dorian said. He looked about as bedraggled as Mireille felt, although his mustache was still perfectly groomed. Maybe he waxed it. “I think I preferred fighting the legions of the dead.”

“And Hawke is definitely that way,” Mireille said, glancing down at Varric.

He nodded. “Pretty sure. He probably figured this would be fun for us.”

“And he wonders why I don’t like him.” She rolled her staff between her palms a few times. “Okay. Bull, right up the middle and distract ‘em, and I’ll follow you. Varric, Dorian, take out anybody who’s coming downhill. I’ll concentrate on the archers and keep them off Bull. Okay?”

“I like being a distraction.” Bull rolled his massive shoulders and unslung his greataxe. “Whenever you give the word, Boss.”

Mireille inhaled, exhaled, touched the lazurite hilt that hung heavy on her belt. “All right. Let’s go.”

Bull was off like a shot. He’d given himself an apt name – he charged headfirst into the nearest Red Templar with so much force he knocked the woman back ten feet, and she hit the cliff wall in a crumpled heap. A crossbow bolt pinned her to the rock for good measure. Mireille followed Bull, tossed a lightning bolt into a Red coming down the cliff and made him stumble long enough for the Qunari to sweep his axe around into his spine. The lumpy monstrosity he’d been engaging roared. Bull roared back. Mireille rolled her eyes. 

“More coming down the hill,” Dorian called, and she felt a barrier settle against her skin, a faint sparkle of protective magic, and good thing too, because an arrow glanced off her shoulder.

She swept her staff around and caught the archer square in the face with a blast of electricity, then back around to cut across the chest of a – ugh – a lyrium-infused _thing,_ all red claws and half-human eyes, and she narrowly avoided its swipe at head height by ducking and backing up toward the cliff. Where was – Bull had three men around him and was giggling like a child on Satinalia. Balls.

Mireille adjusted her grip on the staff, left-handed, and drew her sword.

It was a beautiful thing, a long weightless line of gold and blue, sharp as thought, pulled into existence with the flick of her wrist. The blade met almost no resistance as she slashed it through the creature. The thing fell in a heap and she leapt over its body to drive her sword into one of the knights swarming Bull, cut through muscle and bone and probably several organs, the man _screamed_ and Mireille had to remind herself that she could be sick _later_ because another arrow bounced off the barrier around her, and she raised her staff in the other hand and felt rather than saw the lightning streak down and paralyze the archer who’d shot at her.

The Reds had noticed her now, though, as Bull dealt with another of those lumpy creatures, and one of them shouted, “Get the Inquisitor!” and slashed for her face – and she ducked, grinning smugly, and then the shield in the man’s other hand bounced forward to smack her in the face and she staggered back, planted her staff in the mud to stay on her feet. The sword flickered in her hand, and she swiped anyway, cut across the Templar’s ankles hard enough that he stumbled and cursed. Blood filled her mouth and she spat into his face, made him stumble trying to clear his vision.

A whoosh of flames from Dorian, the rhythmic _ka-chunk_ of Bianca – two more Reds fell and a third went down to her knees – and Mireille pulled up the last of her mana and _pushed_ it out from herself in a blast of greenish force that shook even the things Bull was currently dispatching. She dropped the now-empty hilt into the mud. Get close, step _in_ right behind the shield while the Templar was still disoriented, and hook the staff behind his knee and _shove –_ the Templar flailed, dropped on his ass but didn’t lose the sword, and Mireille saw arm start to move and jabbed the blade of her staff right through his wrist, between the buckles on his vambrace.

The Templar screamed, “Filthy fucking _mage,”_ and slammed the edge of his shield into her thigh, just above the knee.

Bright hot pain jolted all the way up her spine, just before her entire right leg went numb. The staff. The _staff._ She was so dizzy, mouth dry with pain, falling off her feet. The _staff –_ she grabbed it and the man she’d impaled on it cried out again, she saw the shield rise up and if he hit her just a little lower he’d shatter her knee completely, she balanced on her good leg and ripped the blade out of his wrist and – _jammed_ it right down into the man’s throat, through flesh and bone and cartilage.

He gurgled. Distantly Mireille heard the _ka-chunks_ stop and someone said, “Boss, you all right? Got you good, huh?”

She swallowed hard and tried to shake her aching head. “Lucky – lucky shot. Feels like I hit my funnybone _really hard._ ” The wind changed direction and rain landed directly in her face, cold and wet and suddenly kind of refreshing. Better than the fevered sweat she’d broken into. “They’re all gone?”

“Yep. Good work. Want I should carry you?”

“No, I’ll – I’ll be okay.” Mireille paused. Her vision was slowly clearing. She really wished it wasn’t clearing quite so quickly, because the number of bodies around her was – well. Unpleasant. “I can walk.”

“Can you?” Dorian asked, picking his way around the mud and the bodies. “You’ve got a truly impressive amount of blood on your face, you know.”

“I’ll be fine. Just going to limp for a few hours.” She tugged on her staff. It was still stuck inside the last Red Templar. Ohh, Maker, she was going to have to be sick very soon…she managed to brace her half-numb leg on the man’s breastplate and yanked the staff out of him with a nasty little _squelch._ “Ugh. If he hit me any lower I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

There was a chorus of groans, although Bull’s quickly turned into uproarious laughter. Dorian glared up at him and he shrugged. “I appreciate a good pun.”

“You got hit in the head again, didn’t you, Freckles?” Varric hadn’t holstered his bow, still holding her in his arms, glancing around the empty battlefield. “You only make puns when someone hits you in the face. We really gotta put a helmet on you.”

“I make puns more often than _that,_ ” Mireille said, and finally spotted a few bushes. “’Scuse me.”

She quietly threw up behind a holly bush for a minute or so, and chewed up a few mint leaves from her belt pouch as she limped back to the battlefield. Varric had disappeared, but she could just see him on top of the hill, probably checking for more Templars. Dorian handed her the muddy hilt of her sword. “Thanks.”

“Perhaps we could design a spell so it will snap back to your hand when you call it,” he said thoughtfully, as she cleaned it off with her handkerchief. “Some kind of conditional binding.”

“Or tie it around your wrist,” Bull offered.

Mireille tucked it back into her belt and used a clean corner of the handkerchief to wipe some of the blood off her face. Nothing broken, but she was probably going to have a gorgeous bruise and it felt like there was a cut across the bridge. “It doesn’t work if I’m out of mana, but a conditional binding would be useful if it gets knocked out of my hand…”

Bull cleared his throat. “You want to have a scholarly discussion here, be my guest, but this seems like a weird place for it.”

“No, the weirdest place was in the middle of a drained lake,” Mireille said sourly, which made Dorian chuckle. “I still don’t think it matters what they’re called until after they’re all dead. Dead again. Re-dead. Varric! Which way?”

“East,” Varric called, trotting back down to join them.

East, around the cliff and up another hill, turned out to be where Hawke was sitting, half-hidden in a bush growing just outside the mouth of a small cave. Mireille glared at him. He looked perfectly unruffled, which was just unfair, considering the circumstances. “Where’s your Warden?”

Hawke stood up, dusting himself off theatrically, and said, “Down here, I’m pretty sure. How’s that leg? Nice trip through Crestwood?”

“Fantastic.” She gestured at the cliff they’d just come around. “Thanks for leaving the Templars to us.”

“I thought you’d enjoy dealing with those.”

“I enjoyed it,” Bull said, from the back. She heard Dorian huff a laugh.

“At least someone did.” Mireille limped forward, gritting her teeth against the bone-deep ache in her thigh.

“Yep. I think she’s holed up in here – all right,” Hawke said, as she pushed past him, using her staff to help her walk up the hill toward the little cave. “Varric, you and the big guy and the fancy guy want to watch our backs? I think our friend will be a little skittish if we bring an eight-foot Qunari in to see her, no offense.”

“I’m usually here to make people skittish. None taken.”

“I would object to being called ‘the fancy guy’ if I weren’t the best dressed member of this party.”

Mireille limped determinedly through the tunnel, leaving Hawke and her bantering companions behind, mostly because she’d gotten up enough momentum that she wasn’t sure she could stop without falling over. Someone had gone to the trouble of lighting a few torches, at least. She rounded a particularly slick corner, nearly fell, picked herself up after that moment of terror, and paused before what looked like a very hastily-erected wooden door.

It was slightly open, and when she pushed it the hinges creaked softly into the cave beyond. And it was a cave. Stalagmites dotted the floor, water dripped from the ceiling. Someone had been living here, though, because there was a desk shoved into one corner and several small fires burning merrily to warm the cold wet air, which smelled rather more like smoke than like wet stone. There was no one in sight.

Mireille turned, and caught a glimpse of motion out of the corner of her eye, and then there was a knife at her throat and another at her hip, pressed along her kidney. A very Fereldan-accented voice in her ear hissed, “Talk, shem. How’d you find me?”

“Hawke,” Mireille said. Her attacker was taller than she was, clearly armored, a sharp bit of metal pressed into Mireille’s spine. And she was still holding her staff – but it’d be hard to get away from _both_ knives. Fuck. She’d have to ask Cullen if he knew how to get out of that particular hold. “He led me here.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. Staff on the floor.” 

Mireille raised her left hand to her mouth, ripped off the glove with her teeth. In the flickering light her palm glowed brilliantly green. “Believe it, then.”

The knife at her neck shifted down slightly, and then Hawke walked through the door. “Tab, are you threatening people again?”

“Could have told me what she looked like.” The knife was withdrawn and Mireille turned a little more quickly than she really needed to. The elven woman holding it was dressed in silver-scaled armor, slightly dented and blackened with use, but the daggers in each hand looked well-kept and sharp. A blotchy pale scar was spread across the right side of her face, all the way up the top of her pointed ear, maybe an old burn of some kind. “Sorry about that.”

“Well, here you are. Warden Tabris, Inquisitor Trevelyan, vice versa, et cetera.” Hawke leaned against the damp wall of the cave and then seemed to think better of it, because he folded his arms and stood straight instead, looking like he really wanted something to lean nonchalantly against.

“The Hero of Ferelden?” Mireille asked.

The Warden sheathed her daggers, although she was still watching Mireille very carefully with those narrow dark eyes. “Yes, I’m very famous and interesting, except not famous and interesting enough to _not_ have most of the Wardens after me for poking my nose where I shouldn’t. Tabris is fine.”

Mireille tugged her glove back on and rearranged her staff so she could lean heavily against it. “So tell me about that. The Wardens disappear and then darkspawn magister decides to rip the sky a new asshole? I hope you can clear some of that up for me.”

Tabris balanced her hands on the hilts of her daggers, and rocked back and forth on her heels. “Mmhm. You know what Hawke’s told you about Corypheus? Found him in a Warden prison? Well, I did some digging. He’s no archdemon, but I’ve met a few darkspawn that’re harder to kill than they ought to be. Thought he might be the same way. I found some hints. Not much more than that. Then every single Warden in Orlais heard the Calling, all at once.”

“Every Orlesian Warden, or every Warden _in_ Orlais?”

“The last one,” Tabris said, giving Mireille a look of approval. “Kind of suspicious, huh?”

“You didn’t tell me about that.” Hawke tapped the spiky fingers of his gauntlet together, a soft dissatisfied clack.

“Wardens really like secrets. I try to keep a few of the ones they hand me.” Tabris shook her head. “Until they get stupid about it.”

“The Calling,” Mireille prompted.

“Right. You know Grey Wardens don’t tend to live long, yeah? The taint kills us all eventually. Twenty, thirty years after you Join…you get the dreams, hear the song, till you can’t bear it and go down into the Deep Roads to die fighting.” Tabris shrugged, as if this was just a fact of life. “But every Warden in Orlais at once? Who’d stop a Blight if it begins now? Who’d recruit new Wardens? I think this is Corypheus. Haven’t got a blighted idea how, but I smell a rat.”

“A really old rat,” Mireille muttered. “So the Wardens have gone off to do something stupid, haven’t they? Since they think they’re dying out?”

“Oh, yes. Warden-Commander Clarel figured if they’re all going to die, they’re going to go out with a bang. Blood magic rituals to try and prevent further Blights.” Tabris waved her hands in the air mockingly. “Sounds like bullshit to me. I’ve seen what even a short Blight can do, and Ferelden is still recovering ten years later. But blood magic? With Corypheus involved? It’s too convenient. Too likely that darkspawn nughumper is the one behind it. I made noise, maybe a little too much noise, and now those asshats are hunting me down. Me! How many times have I – ” She frowned and shook her head hard, making her short bleached-white hair flutter. “Anyway, they’ve moved to the Western Approach, gathering there. So they can do whatever bloody ritual Clarel is planning, I assume.”

“And you want my help to stop it.” Mireille shifted her weight and winced as she leaned on her injured leg.

“Yeah. I realize the Hero of Ferelden eats the impossible for breakfast, but – not totally sure I can take out every Warden in Orlais before they catch wind. Most of my friends are investigating other things farther west. I can contact them and see if they’ve found anything useful. They were investigating the Calling itself, trying to find a way to cure it, so they might have some information we can use if we join forces. I have a pretty good bit of information to offer you and also my own skills and contacts. Might need to change my name, though. Your Inquisition isn’t exactly low profile.”

“You’ve always looked like a Chloe to me,” Hawke said absently, beginning to pace the floor. “Blood magic, what could they hope to accomplish with _that?_ Tainted blood…” He trailed off, looking up at the ceiling of the cave.

Tabris balanced her palms back on the hilts of her daggers, looking down at Mireille.

Mireille considered her for a moment, and then stuck out her hand. “Welcome to the Inquisition, then. We could definitely use your assistance.”

Tabris spat into her palm and gripped Mireille’s hand in a very damp, very firm handshake. “Good. I was really tired of living in this cave.”

 

* * *

 

Not every day was the same, in Skyhold, but there was a routine to them that Cullen cherished.

Wake before dawn, usually in a cold sweat, usually in bed, although he’d fallen asleep on his desk twice already this week. Wash his face in the water basin to shock himself awake. A series of quick calisthenics as the sun began to rise and the birds living above his ceiling woke fully to greet the day, and then dunk his head back in the basin and clean up a bit before he dressed. Maybe even shave if the day called for it. Sweep his hair back with a palmful of styling cream, faintly scented with oak and elderflower, to keep the curls in line. And then bundle himself up in his armor and slide down the ladder to put the kettle on and to retrieve his breakfast tray from the east door.

The tray itself wasn’t new – weeks ago in a brief moment of clarity he’d arranged for the kitchen to send up something at dawn every day, Antivan coffee and Ferelden-style porridge and a hard-boiled egg and toast to boot. He’d been feeling particularly optimistic that day, perhaps. The coffee, at least, he always drank.

Cullen had a feeling Mireille had spoken to the kitchen before she left, though. His trays now came with a second mug, clean and empty. As if he didn’t wash out his mugs. Well, there was no reason you couldn’t put more coffee in a mug that had only really held coffee to begin with…that was just common sense.

He tipped the boiling kettle into the clean mug and pawed through the wooden box for the proper teabag, dunking it into the water, and then got up to let in Candor, who never failed to scratch at his door as soon as he’d sat down at the desk. “Good morning, girl – yes, hello, hello, it’s nice to see you too. Who’s a good girl? Yes, it’s you.”

Candor huffed a little bark at him, until he fed her a few strips of jerky from his coat pocket and gave her a good solid petting, and then she burped happily and took her place at his feet. This, too, was becoming routine. He couldn’t say he was sorry for the company – the dog made an excellent footwarmer until she woke up fully. Which usually didn’t happen until midday or so.

And the headache wasn’t even back yet. Perhaps it would be a good day, today, Cullen mused around a mouthful of porridge. Or at least a calm one.

The light had moved maybe a foot across the floor and he’d just finished his coffee when a soft knock sounded against the eastern door. Leliana didn’t actually wait for him to respond, just strode into his office with a sheaf of papers in her hand. Wordlessly, she handed him a report.

Cullen flipped through it, squinting a little to make out the smaller words, as Leliana proceeded to eat his toast. A collection of patrol reports from the soldiers he’d set to watch out for Red Templars moving equipment, lyrium, supplies…he stood, dislodging Candor from his feet with a thump and a small indignant _woof_ , and dug a map out of the strata of his desk. “Northern Orlais. I suppose there’s a fortress there of some kind? Samson’s destination?”

“The Shrine of Dumat,” Leliana said, handing him another report. “All our information is quite old, but it is a Tevinter site, thought abandoned. A distant place, but not easy to defend and not a place that can house or support an army. If this is where Samson is hiding, he does not have a large force with him.”

“He doesn’t need one, he has Red Templars.” Ah, yes, there was the headache. Cullen took a long swig from the mug of tea and tried not to grimace. “If he has any of those behemoth creatures the Inquisitor found in Sahrnia, he has no need for hundreds of men. Maker’s breath, I wish we could get siege weaponry up there.”

“And scare him off.” Leliana took his second piece of toast, too. Not that he’d really planned to eat it anyway, but it was the principle of the thing. “A small strike force could possibly move in and sweep the fortress, but the approach will be difficult to make stealthy. I have agents looking now to find a quiet way to the shrine to take them by surprise. Your patrols covered plenty of ground, but subtle they are not.”

Cullen sighed. “Well, yes. But we’re going to have to move quickly, before Samson realizes he’s been caught. We may never have a chance like this again. I could – ”

“ – could remember that we also have an obligation to prevent an assassination,” Leliana cut in smoothly. “Peace talks, Halamshiral, less than a month away.”

“He could be _gone_ in that much time.”

“Not unless we play our hand too early and let him know we know where he lives.” She tucked her arms behind her back, the very picture of calm patience. “Besides, the Inquisitor will not be back for at least a week. And if there is any possibility of a rift, you will need her to join you.”

Dimly, Cullen realized he’d been leaning over the desk like a dog ready to snap, and straightened up with an effort. “And there’s no time before Halamshiral to trek north, yes. We could leave directly from the Winter Palace after the talks, make as if we’re going to Val Royeaux,” and Leliana winced at his deliberately terrible pronunciation but he continued, poking the map with a finger as he spoke, “and slip off from there. If we dispatch a strike force to the marshes we can meet up with them at the edge and proceed quietly toward the Shrine.”

The spymaster leaned over to peer at the map. “Vivienne is the mistress of Duke Bastien, it will not look so strange to have Inquisition troops in the Fields of Ghislain – they are mostly his lands. I can speak with Josephine once she’s finished with the quartermaster. Vivienne will be at the Winter Palace with us, after all, and a short trip to visit her Duke will surprise no one. Easier than the marshes in autumn.”

“It’s not soon enough,” Cullen muttered, tapping his fingertips hard on the desk. “Winter is close, we’ll be snowed into Skyhold before long. The sledges will help, but large-scale troop movements will be incredibly difficult even a month from now. We have to move our agents out before that happens, or trickle them out slowly. Or find a way to melt the snow…or build siege engines in the valley, instead of up here…”

Leliana picked a folded paper off the pile she’d brought and handed it to him. “You’ll want to read this, as well.”

The paper had been rolled tightly at one point, probably so it could fit into a message capsule. Cullen smoothed it out and scanned the scratchy, spidery handwriting, trying to parse what in the entire Void Mireille had written. Then it clicked and he said in astonishment, “Am I reading this right? Hawke’s Warden contact is _the Hero of Ferelden?”_

“Apparently Minna is not quite as far west as we’d been led to believe,” Leliana said, and there was just a hint of actual discomfort in her usually impassive face. “Or, rather, she’s returned to investigate what she feels is a more serious threat.”

“In the Western Approach. Tevinter ruins…” Cullen rubbed his face, scratching at the half-grown stubble on his chin. Perhaps he ought to have shaved today after all. “Maker’s breath, if _she’s_ worried, we should be very afraid. When can we debrief her?”

“Read the entire letter, Commander.”

He’d stopped halfway through the first paragraph, and resumed reading. And then looked up at Leliana again. “Jainen. The Inquisitor is detouring to _Jainen Circle.”_

“I did tell her I had agents investigating the broken Circles for information as she requested. Templar notes, information about lyrium, caches of equipment…phylacteries. Jainen had a rather impressive library, and it’s quite close to Crestwood. I’m sure she thought it was prudent to look while she was in the area.”

“It’s still out of the way. And the fighting between mages and Templars in Ferelden is still going on, despite her efforts.” The uncomfortable thought occurred to him that Mireille was probably looking for information about _withdrawal,_ and he pushed it away to worry at later. “Maker, I wish she’d ask for backup on occasion. Or let your agents deal with it.”

“She does have the Hero of Ferelden with her,” Leliana pointed out. “And Kirkwall’s Champion, as well. I’m much less afraid for her safety than I am that she’ll be late returning to Skyhold. If the weather doesn’t hold, we will have to meet her on the way to Halamshiral.”

“Maker’s _breath.”_

Leliana smiled, with absolutely no humor in it. “Precisely.”

“And we’ll have to leave directly from Halamshiral to make it to the Shrine…and if this business with the Wardens is truly so urgent as to necessitate Tabris’ return, we may need to travel directly west from there. Assuming we can deal with Samson quickly.” Cullen looked down at the map again, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “There’s too much we don’t know.”

“You knew the man. Is he intelligent enough to surrender in the face of poor odds?”

It was suddenly very hard to meet the spymaster’s steely blue eyes. He tried to cover it by finishing off the tea, which still tasted just as bitter and grassy as ever. “I don’t know. He…when he had a cause to believe in, he was hard to shake, but he is a survivor above all else. I think it would take longer odds than we can bring to bear to convince him to surrender. Especially with red lyrium giving him power, and we don’t know enough about his armor to destabilize it yet. He could make a stand and decimate us. Or he could slip off to somewhere better hidden with all his equipment, and we’ll never find him again.”

Leliana gave him a brief look, as if she were filing all his words right down to the intonation for future reference, and then nodded decisively. “More information should be forthcoming within the week, I have agents near the area. Let’s meet at the War Table a bell past midday, yes? Josephine is working on the latest supply line inventories, I believe she will be finished by then.”

“Yes, that sounds good. Thank you, Leliana,” Cullen said, and nodded to the spymaster as she turned and left. But not before she’d stolen his hard-boiled egg.

The pile of reports sat there, half-read, because immediately after Leliana walked out Sergeant Beryl came in with the morning report from the army camp. And then Jim came to share the results of the nightly patrols in the valley – a few more bears sighted, a herd of elk moving through the area that the archers very much wanted to hunt, storms moving in from the west that promised snow within the week. The pile was half-covered by correspondence from Lead Scout Harding, then by a lengthy list of shields that needed replacing, swords that needed sharpening, soldiers that needed more socks ( _always_ more socks, maybe he should take up knitting), and then they were nearly forgotten in lieu of perusing a detailed report on Jainen Circle’s activity up until the rebellion, thank you, Leliana – until a cold breeze from the roof knocked the entire pile off his desk and he had to get up, cursing, to retrieve the scattered papers. Candor made herself useful by continuing to snore under his desk while he chased the fluttering pages around the room.

Report, report, a map, a requisition, another report, a roster, and…a message tube, sealed with green wax, lying among the lists and papers. Cullen scooped this up immediately and broke the seal. And then, guiltily, went to put the kettle back on before he sat down to read Mireille’s letter.

      _Rutherford:_

_Glad the pain relief is working. Seems like this is a good formula for now, but keep me posted, your notes have been excellent so far. We can adjust upward if needed. I want to try supplementing with spindleweed at some point, I think it’ll keep the headaches at bay for longer, but if you’re not feeling the need yet don’t worry about it until I get back._

_You have to actually take the anxiolytic or it won’t work. Try before bed ~~assuming you actually sleep sometimes~~ or when you wake. It doesn’t matter when you take it, it matters that you can remember to take it, so consider this your reminder. Again. _

_Try doing something that isn’t work for an hour or two, for a change. Drink water, not just coffee. Don’t forget to eat. I’m sure you’ve already stolen Candor’s affections by now, but don’t feed her too much jerky. Apparently venison makes her gassy._ (Cullen snorted at this.)

_Also do you know how to get out of a hold with a knife at your neck and another at your kidney? Tab won’t show me because she’s never gotten out of it, only put people into it, and Bull’s answer is take it to the kidney. I like having my kidneys, so that’s out._

_~~Be~~ ~~Stay~~ ~~See you~~ _

_Take care of yourself._

_Trevelyan_

Cullen read the letter. Then put his reading glasses on and read it again. The kettle whistled and he got up, letter in hand, poured the water into the tea mug, read it again. He spared the box of teabags a glance, so he could find the right damn one, and dropped a lemon-scented bag into the hot water, and then went back to reading.

The message was dated three days ago, and Crestwood was close to Jainen. She was probably already there. Walking through a fallen Circle, with all the horrors that entailed, for – for some fool’s errand, because no one left the Order, so the Templars had never looked into that kind of thing, had never –  

He stopped himself there. How could he know what Templars had or hadn’t done? Look at the Red Templars. Look at how many secrets Meredith had kept in Kirkwall, and Maker only knew how many like him – how many stupid, complacent fools – had let it continue unabated. Looking for information on lyrium, on secrets the Chantry and the Knight-Commanders had hidden away, unquestioned and unnoticed…there was probably plenty to find.

Cullen picked up the mug and nearly sloshed hot tea all over his desk and himself. The first gulp burned his entire tongue, more heat than flavor, and he put the mug down again with a sigh.

Under the desk, Candor snuffled. There was a distressing smell. “Thank you,” Cullen told the dog, who wagged her tail and gave him a hopeful look. “No more jerky for you.”

The sheepdog yawned and laid her head on his leg. He pushed the chair back so he could bend down and scratch her behind the ears, with both hands, until her tail thumped hard against the side of his desk. “You’re very lucky you’re a dog, you know. You don’t have to worry about know-it-all mages or withdrawal symptoms or requisitions. Or Templars, or lyrium. Or Samson,” he added, his voice faltering just a bit. “You’re just happy if you’re fed and loved, hmm?”

Candor licked him in the face and he laughed, in spite of himself. “Yes, yes, good morning to you too.”

He looked over at his desk again, at the piled-high papers. There were scout patrols to arrange. There was a detachment that needed to be sent to investigate the Western Approach, and he really needed to talk to Rylen about that today, they could send the first companies out now and beat the snows. And get the supply lines secured. Then Knight-Captain Brynn would be arriving in a few weeks with the mages from Hasmal, she’d been sending updates every week or so, and he’d been meaning to ask her how in the world she _knew_ the Inquisitor but he’d forgotten every time he sat down to write the letter. And he had to plan for a strike team, a _very good_ strike team, to attack the Shrine of Dumat and hopefully to find Samson there, preferably unarmored and unawares so he’d be easy to capture. So he wouldn’t have to die. (Cullen’s stomach grumbled, reminding him that a certain nightingale had stolen half his breakfast, and that Mireille was probably going to find out if he skipped lunch again.)

So…it was really rather stupid of him to be worried about the Inquisitor, about Mireille, with enough on his plate for several helpings of worry already. She’d made a living in Kirkwall after the rebellion. She’d seen the horrors of the war already, lived them firsthand, and she was with some of the most powerful people in all Thedas. She _was_ one of the most powerful people in all Thedas. A few long-dead bodies certainly weren’t going to faze her any more than Corypheus had.

And…she was concerned about _him._ It was strange and unexpected and probably undeserved and not, precisely, unwelcome. The world was breaking at the seams, full of death and pain and hard decisions, and here was the Herald of Andraste reminding him to eat.

He ought to write her back, before he forgot to do that too.

Candor licked his cheek again and he gave her another good scratch. “All right, all right. We’ll go out in just a moment. Let me write a few things down. You’re…licking my knee, Candor. Yes, I know I should wash these breeches, but stop that.”

Cullen sat forward again, found a scrap of paper, picked up his pen from one of the empty mugs scattered across his desk, and began to write.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of a hodgepodge exposition chapter! 
> 
> i personally feel like there was an excellent opportunity to have all three heroes of Thedas in the same room at the same time (and I also don't have a lot of feelings about Stroud since we really don't get to know him very well in the games). 
> 
> next chapter will probably be posted much, much sooner than usual -- it'll read a lot better if i don't pause very long between chapters, so it should come out Mon/Tues or so.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the first bit of this chapter (not unlike DAO's Broken Circle quest, actually) contains a lot of the aftermath of explicit violence, including against children. while it's not atypical for canon or super duper graphic, i felt a content warning might be appropriate here anyway.

Looking at the map, Mireille said, “I think this is it.”

Dorian squinted out at the half-crumbled tower. “This is a Fereldan Circle?”

“Well, it was.” She rolled up the parchment and hopped down from the rock she’d been standing on to get a better view. “It doesn’t look like it fared all that well in the rebellion.”

“I don’t know, that gaping hole in the wall could be intentional. Perhaps they simply wanted some nice fresh sea air. Who doesn’t love the smell of old fish? Won’t this delay make us rather later for your peace talks, Inquisitor?” he added, his joking tone turning a little sharp at the end.

“I think we’ll be able to get back to Skyhold in time, no trouble.”

Dorian sighed. “Unless there’s a snowstorm, or an avalanche, or any other delays at all?”

“Exactly.”

“Mm, trusting the southern weather to hold. I love living dangerously.”

From down the road, Hawke called, “Inquisitor, you’d better take a look at this.”

Mireille made a face at Dorian and trotted down the road, stopping beside the Champion, who was looking intently at a cluster of bushes. Tabris was kneeling down in the foliage, and nudged a branch aside. “What am I – _oh.”_

The bushes were densely leafy, and they’d hidden most of the body from view.

It wasn’t skeletal yet. Of course, the rebellion wasn’t that old, and it took a long time to make a skeleton. But the eyes – ugh – the eyes were gone, eaten away, the lips drawn back in a deathly grimace, the hands clutched around a broken spear haft protruding from a ribcage. The smell was surprisingly light, probably because some animal had opened the belly and eaten its fill already. Shreds of a robe discolored with blood were spread all around. It looked like an apprentice robe, made all the more likely by the fact that the body was perhaps four feet tall.

Mireille raised a fist to her mouth. Behind her she heard Dorian mutter something in Tevene and step back.

Tabris straightened, looking rather ashen herself. “Didn’t know things were this bad.”

“They always were,” Hawke said sourly, toeing the body. “Now it’s out in the open.”

The Warden sighed heavily, and got back to her feet, letting the bushes sway back into place. “It’s been here a while. Doubt we’ll see trouble inside.”

“More than a year, I think,” Mireille said, gazing down at the bushes. She couldn’t seem to look away, her eyes finding little specks of red and black between the gaps in the leaves. “I’m just going in to find their library. Anybody wants to stay outside, that’s fine.”

“Why?” Hawke asked.

“Lyrium. Or rather – notes about it. I figure if anyone knows about lyrium, it’s Templars.”

“Funnily enough, your Chantry is rather secretive about the stuff,” Dorian said. “Do you really think you’re going to find what you’re looking for here, Inquisitor?”

Mireille shrugged. “It’s worth a try. The Circle at Jainen isn’t the biggest in Ferelden, but I met a few enchanters from here in Ostwick and they scoffed at our library. So I’m hoping it’ll be worth the look.”

“I don’t know how much it’ll help,” Varric said. “The red stuff doesn’t seem to act like the regular blue stuff.”

She started down the dirt road toward the bridge. “No, but maybe it’ll give us a clue or two.” And maybe there’d be more information about withdrawal, too.

Not that she was doing this _for_ Cullen, specifically. No, it was just common sense – now that everything had broken down, there might be others who would want to go off lyrium, in lieu of rejoining the Order. If there would even be a Templar Order after all this. And she had to be ready to treat them. And that could lead to treatments for red lyrium exposure, which was becoming more and more dire as they found more of the stuff. And, sure, Leliana’s agents could handle this, but…well. Jainen was close enough to Crestwood, after all.

And she wanted to see this for herself.

The tower had been set up on a stony island a little ways out into the strait, a tall imposing structure made less imposing by the hole in the eastern wall. Scorched rubble dotted the ground around it. One particularly large piece of masonry had landed in the middle of the bridge. Mireille clambered over it, her bruised leg protesting.

On the other side, a crumpled figure in heavy Templar armor lay, spell-blackened and crow-nibbled. She walked on past it.

The front door looked like someone had barred it, or tried to – it was enormous, iron-reinforced wood, and currently hanging half off its hinges, nudged out of the way by a chunk of rubble. Mireille considered it as the others drifted down the bridge to join her. Tabris looked up at the hole in the tower’s side, eyebrows raised. “Huh.”

“Probably pyrotechnics,” Bull said, dusting his hands off. “Scoot back, boss. I’d have to look upstairs, but it could have been a bomb of some kind. This close to a port you could probably get components no trouble.”

“Or a magical explosion,” Dorian said, as Bull carefully pulled the door off its remaining hinges. “If a spell backfired, that could be the reason for this rather impressive amount of mess.”

“Great.” Varric sat down at the base of the stairs. “I’ll be out here watching your backs. And not in there.”

Hawke sat down as well. “Yes, have fun exploring the prison. I’ve seen enough of the inside of those.”

Mireille decided to ignore this, and followed Bull through the door. And immediately wished she hadn’t. The antechamber was full of bodies – crushed beneath rubble or sword-stuck or burned black like overdone toast. The enormous doors, the ones the Templars shut when things went too wrong to salvage, had been blown out of their frame and lay bent and crumpled against the walls, covered in black soot.

Automatically, she reached for her belt pouch and pulled out a mint leaf to stick in her mouth. Beside her Tabris knelt down, running her fingers across the floor. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been through here in a while. Dust everywhere.”

Bull poked his head through the open archway that led onward, into a curving hallway. “Looks clear. Where’s the library most likely to be?”

“Higher up, probably.” Mireille trotted a little ways down the hall. “These look like mostly apprentice quarters. We’re probably looking for books or notes stored by Templars, so they’d be in an office or probably behind a locked door.”

“Got it. I’m gonna sweep the place, then. Check if there’s anyone still here, look at that explosion, see what I can find – assuming you want to check out the rest of the floors more thoroughly.”

 “I suppose I’ll come prevent you from stepping in any wards,” Dorian said, with a long-suffering sigh. “Again.”

“Hey, don’t put wards all over the library floor and I won’t step in ‘em.”

“I’ll have you know…” and mercifully their voices faded as they went around the corner, which left Mireille to stew in her own thoughts, standing at the half-open door to the apprentice quarters.

It would have been a mercy if they were empty. She could have pretended that the apprentices had gotten out, that the children had been saved, if they were empty. They were not.

There was a dead Templar on the floor, her regulation longsword broken off in the chest of a half-formed bloodstained _thing,_ all the more horrible for its sunken dead eyes. There was a tall body in senior enchanter’s robes between them, lying face-down with rents in its spine, from claws. A silent, toppled tableau. And not the only one in the room.

Were the bodies still there in Ostwick? Knight-Commander Arden, rotting out of his armor into the bloodstained carpet? Kerin and Miriam, their bones baked from the inside out, twisted up in the hall? Little Petyr and Dorcas and twitchy Caris, stricken down by her friends’ swords as they tried to stand and defend the only way they’d known, were they still there reeking and empty and scavenged? She’d always wanted to go back. Build a pyre for them. She’d never gotten up the money. Never found the chance.

She couldn’t move, feet pinned to the floor, and she had to _push_ herself to step forward, to cross the silent stinking room.

There was a Chantry amulet, a sunburst, lying just under the dead enchanter. Smeared with old brown blood. Mireille knelt down and picked it up, the broken chain dangling limply from the pendant. It was simple – enameled brass, chipped and dented with years of wear.

Behind her, Tabris said, “Even Kinloch wasn’t this bad.”

Mireille jumped, in spite of herself, and half-turned. The elven woman was considering the room, her mouth set in a thin line. “More demons. Less dead kids. I liked the demons better.”

“Kinloch…”

“The other Fereldan Circle. Kind of a shit place.”

“I’ve heard,” Mireille said absently, peering across the room. “I wonder what it looks like now.” She picked her way through the scattered clothes and the bits of wood, looking up at the bookshelf in the corner, but it was all simple apprentice texts and novels she’d already read. No help there. “We’ll need to head upstairs, I think. I doubt there’s going to be anything helpful on this floor.”

They strolled up the stairs together, marking Bull and Dorian’s footprints in the dust. Tabris kept a hand on her dagger at all times and prowled like a cat, almost silent in her movements, her head turning constantly. Mireille watched her, trying not to think too hard.

Every room was a gory mess. There were spots of dry blood everywhere, broken swords, rent shields. A half-armored Templar with his eyes torn out. An old enchanter with her staff shoved down her throat and through the back of her skull. Once there had been – maybe a hundred people, Mireille guessed, based on the size and state of the dormitories, and now they were dead or gone. Scorch-marks on the walls, trees half-grown by magic protruding from stone and piercing through gut and chest and limbs to defend the body curled up in the protective shell of its roots, unsuccessful given the spear stuck through the cracking wood. It had been war. The Hinterlands all over again, rewritten smaller and more personal.

In the stockroom, Tabris silently handed her a sheet of paper and trotted out to examine the hallway again. It was a requisition for more lyrium, packed for travel. A note on the bottom: “Must be filled within the week, so we can move the robes to Kinloch. Better defenses there.” There were boxes, broken open, half-full vials scattered across the floor. A faint gleam of blue-white crystal where the solvent had evaporated and left solid lyrium behind.

Mireille chewed on mint leaves and tried not to scream.

They climbed steadily, past the armory (mostly deserted now, but for two corpses, locked in struggle over a sword) and the Templar dormitories (scorch marks on the wall and a twinge in Mireille’s palm suggested the Veil had been torn here, that something had been summoned to burn men and women into the ashy skeletons that crumbled in a faint breeze) and Mireille paused before a heavy door, fully shut and locked.

Tabris withdrew a small leather roll from her belt and knelt before the door. There were several soft _clunks_ and she pushed it open with a gentle creak.

It was an office, pristine and untouched. An empty armor stand in the corner. Just a couple of books, a few sheaves of notes that Mireille scooped up, scanning briefly.

“Maker, they’re notes on _people,”_ she said, and to her surprise it came out loud and tight with indignation. “Enchanter Petra a known rebel sympathizer. Apprentice Wen, disciplined four times for trying to escape. First Enchanter Jendrik…pushed for reforms, demanded better treatment, escaped in his youth…”

 _Right of Annulment,_ the paper read, and Mireille’s mouth went dry, staring at the old ink, at the harbinger of death some Templar had written down above a detailed inventory of food supplies, as if it was just another Tuesday at Jainen’s Circle –

And strong brown fingers tugged the papers out of her grasp, folded them up, as if those words weren’t burned into her brain already. Tabris glanced at the papers and set them down, then wrapped her hands firmly around Mireille’s, leaning down a bit to look her in the eye. “Come on, Inquisitor. We’re here for a reason, yeah? The sooner we find what you’re looking for, the sooner we can get out of this shithole.”

The Warden’s eyes were almost black, and her gaze was surprisingly kind and concerned. Mireille blinked a few times and shook herself, trying to get rid of the creeping chill down her back. “Right. Yes. Let’s take those, I think our spymaster could use them. There might be more useful things in here too. We should look in the First Enchanter’s office, too, and behind any locked doors. If there’s detailed information about lyrium and its less savory effects, it’s not going to be in the public libraries.”

“Good plan.” Tabris patted her on the shoulders. “I’ll look for more locked doors.”

“I’m fine,” Mireille snapped, shrugging away from the other woman’s hands.

“Didn’t say you weren’t.” Tabris handed her the folded papers. “This would shock just about anybody, a mage twice as bad. You’re not from Ferelden.”

Mireille tucked the notes away and began to go over the desk, passing over ink bottles and picking up lists of inventory. “No, I’m not. This looks like the Knight-Captain’s office. I wonder if the Knight-Commander has one on the top floor?”

“Marches?” Tabris sank down on one knee, examining the drawers of the desk. She spread the lockpick kit across her knee and began to fiddle.

“Yes. Are you making small talk?” Mireille asked, flipping through the books. “Hmm. Chant of Light, swordfighting…useless.”

“You seem like you could use some small talk.” The drawer popped open, and Tabris started to pull things out of it, setting them on the desk. A very battered copy of _Swords and Shields,_ a small bottle of sword oil. A flask still full of liquid. A locket, which Mireille opened to find a tiny curl of hair tucked inside. A wooden box with a sunburst carved into the lid. A ring of keys, which the Warden spun around her finger. “Hello, that’s useful.”

Mireille debated that statement for a moment, and then said, “Maybe. I’m from Ostwick. Grew up there, sent off to the Circle.” She opened the little box. A lyrium kit, neatly arranged, every tool in place.

“I’m from Denerim. Been to Kirkwall, but never Ostwick.” Tabris straightened, dusted off her hands.

“Not much there if you aren’t a mage,” Mireille said, moving the battered book so she could look at the notes underneath. It seemed to be mostly rotations and guard rosters. “The Circle was good. We did a lot of research on healing, a lot of doctoring and alchemy. Advanced stuff. We did a lot of good.”

Tabris said, very carefully, “You liked the Circle, then.”

“Right until the end I did.” Without conscious thought her hand had lifted, rubbed across her stomach under the leather coat. Mireille had to force herself to divert it and pick up the book. “Varric will appreciate this, at least. Let’s keep moving.”

The next stairwell let out into what had probably once been a closed hallway and was now substantially breezier with the gaping holes in the wall around the door. Dorian glanced up as the two women entered what passed for a room. “Ah, good. We’ve found a few things.”

“This used to be an office,” Bull said from the center of the floor. He was examining what looked like a torn piece of cloth, lying in the center of a circular pattern of soot. “I think. Definitely a bomb. Qunari-style explosives, maybe some magic involved to trigger it or something. Looks a little like what they used in Kirkwall, boss. Might be a copycat.”

“Whoever set the bomb off, I presume, didn’t stop to take much,” Dorian continued. He’d been laying out scraps of papers on the floor, and gestured to the rubble beyond him. “The library is mostly intact, but the explosion took out the desk and whoever was in it.”

“And this was the Knight-Commander’s office,” Mireille said flatly. “Of course.”

“Yes. I’ve been looking through what remains of the books in here, but they’re all badly damaged.” He held up a pair of scorched covers, bits of paper still barely attached. “But there are several doors our resident battering ram has knocked in, if you’d like to look down the hall.”

And one of them was the First Enchanter’s office. There was a big desk, shelves of books, a spare set of black robes, and tucked under the pillow of the narrow bed – a manifesto on mage rights. Mireille turned away after that, barely stopped to look over the titles on the shelves.

Tabris glided after her like a shadow, as Mireille searched through the library and thanked every god whose name she knew that the cold ocean air through the broken ceiling overrode the smell of stale death that flooded the tower. Her satchel began to fill up with treatises and research notebooks and one particularly nice book on medicine she’d never seen before. It almost felt like pawing through any library.

The light was beginning to dim when Tabris said, across the demolished room, “Inquisitor, here.”

Mireille trotted over just as the Warden withdrew the key from the small door that had been hidden behind a collapsed shelf, and pushed it open.

The room inside was fully intact and completely windowless, and thus very dark. Mireille waved her hand, a magelight appearing over her shoulder, and stepped into the small room – and gasped, as all her magic trickled out of her like water out of a draining bath. The light snapped off.

Tabris caught her as she sagged. “Trap?”

“Silence. Anti-magic,” Mireille said hoarsely, leaning on her staff. It felt like a cold steely hand was gripping her spine, right behind her ribs, and she had to make an effort to look down at the floor. Yes, there were runes there, glowing almost imperceptibly blue. “Built into the stone…Important stuff in here.”

“Vials.” Tabris was looking beyond her, eyes narrowed. “Lot of vials.” She stepped into the room and gently took Mireille by the shoulders, moved her back across the threshold. 

“Phylacteries.” Oh, Maker, she hadn’t been Silenced in _years,_ she’d almost forgotten that choked-off feeling, and how the bloody balls had they been able to work that into the stone? Fuck. Mireille leaned against the fallen bookshelf, panting. “Books?”

“Yeah.” Tabris turned to the side, peering up at what might have been a shelf in the gloom. “Lyrium carving and runecraft. Lyrium, period. Chant of Light, Unabridged. Lots of notes. Maps, I think these are. Genitivi’s book, too. Couple of treatises…”

“Take it all,” Mireille said, her hands pressed to her stomach. “All of it.”

Oh, Maker, the last time she’d been Silenced was –

No, _no,_ none of that now, she chided herself. None of that. Had to stay upright. She could panic _later._ Right now she was here and alive and safe. She leaned against the wall and shut her eyes, just for a second, trying to think of something, _anything_ else.

A memory of scarred hungry lips and strong hands presented itself, and Mireille scowled. That was its own set of problems.

And yet he’d put his hand on hers just before she left, nothing like lust in that simple gesture, just soft gratitude. That was _odd._ And she was standing in a broken Circle thinking about this, which seemed wildly inappropriate even for someone whose favorite curse referred to her god’s testicles.

But she wasn’t quite so afraid, thinking about Cullen to distract herself, and that was…something. So she let herself think about him for just a minute. Just until she could breathe again. If nothing else, he made an excellent distraction.

The clenching feeling in her spine began to fade, and Mireille opened her eyes as Tabris came out with an armful of books. “Think you can hold these?” she asked, and when Mireille nodded she handed the pile over. “We should get Shorty over there to haul the rest. There’s a good bit.”

And once the books and papers were hauled away, Mireille swallowed hard and walked back into the Silenced room, and smashed every phylactery in the dark room with her staff and her boots, until there was nothing but glass dust and the heavy copper smell of blood.

“Let’s get out of this shithole,” she muttered, and let Tabris help her walk out of the tower.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck this.”

Another book landed on the cot. Mireille dragged a sheaf of yellowing notes toward herself and growled in frustration. Piles of books to add to Skyhold’s library and almost _nothing_ useful.

Oh, the books on runecrafting would make Dagna happy. And there was a copy of Brother Genitivi’s text that had been annotated by someone who knew quite a bit about Ferelden and its Circles but not much about anything else, that…would make _someone_ happy, probably. There were pages and pages of notes – records on who’d failed Harrowings and been made Tranquil, escape records, and much more recently, notes on mages who harbored “rebellious sentiment.” There were a few basic texts on lyrium, several books about the Chantry and the history of the Templars that might be of interest to a Chantry scholar but that provided no bloody information about bloody lyrium withdrawal and its long-term effects. She’d already peeked through the medical texts she’d saved – nothing there either.

And these notes…records of former Templars, the pages magically preserved and still beginning to crumble at the edges, going back a long, long time. Presumably all the way back to the founding of the Circle given how thick the stack was, and this wasn’t even the whole pile. Maker.

Mireille flipped through it anyway, starting at the most recent – dated almost a year and a half ago. A Templar dismissed for refusing to kill a Harrowed mage…a Knight-Corporal who’d been canoodling with a mage, exiled. Jainen Circle had tried its best to hold onto what they’d known after the rebellion. To keep functioning. Until even that hadn’t been enough.

She flipped back a little farther, then a little farther still, as the lamp-wick burned slowly down. When had those visitors come from Jainen…she paused, the words _Knight-Commander_ flashing past, and went back to find it.

The former Knight-Commander of Jainen Circle, six years back. A man named Kendrick Velis. A model Templar, originally from the South Reach in Ferelden, started at Kinloch and moved to Jainen as a Knight-Corporal. Rose through the ranks. Exemplary record, disciplined in his youth for not rationing his lyrium properly but otherwise a perfect Chantry boy. Mireille noted with distaste that there was a little set of tally marks on the bottom of the sheet below the words ESCAPEES FOUND. (And would she have wrinkled her nose a year ago, when she still believed Circles could keep them safe if only they could be propped up again?)

The second page was written in a much shakier hand, crumpled up:

      _It’s bullshit. Everyone high up does it, takes a little more than they’re given. Why should I be punished? I need the stuff to do my job. Revered Mother, you gave me my first draught when I was eighteen. What’s the harm in making sure I can do my job clear-headed? Why would you punish me for trying to serve my Maker best I can?_

And at the bottom, a clean scribe’s hand read: _Knight-Commander Velis retired honorably at the grand age of sixty-four on this Fifth of Umbralis in this thirty-fifth year of the Dragon Age. He was given a stipend of lyrium to last him the remainder of his years in peace._

Mireille tossed the papers down in disgust and groaned. Un-fucking-helpful.

There was a knock on the tent post and she snapped, “What?”

“Food,” Harding said cheerfully, ducking under the flap of the tent. She was carrying a small tray with a wooden bowl and a large pile of papers and message capsules on it, and set it down on Mireille’s stool with a thump.

“Thanks, Harding,” Mireille said with a sigh, standing up. “Messages from Skyhold?” Something squawked, and Mireille looked up with a frown. “Harding, you know you’ve got…a little something, right there, on your head.”

“Yes, it’s a big damn raven, I know,” Harding said. Baron Plucky squawked again.

“Do you need help with that?”

“Oh, no. The Baron and I have an understanding.” The bird nodded, and Harding continued, “The usual patrols are out, but we haven’t seen anyone or anything beyond a few pheasants. Dorian wants you to know that if you need something he’ll be investigating a binding for your sword, whatever that means, and the Iron Bull and Hawke are…I think they were comparing biceps when I last checked. It all looks pretty calm for now, but it’ll probably rain tonight, so stay dry.”

“Thanks, Harding.” Mireille tried to give the dwarf a smile. It didn’t feel quite right on her face.

“No offense, Inquisitor, but I think I like your scowl better.” Harding saluted. “Good luck.”

When she’d left, taking the croaking Baron Plucky with her, Mireille pulled the tray down into her lap. At least the messages from Skyhold would be less of a headache. Purple wax seals on Leliana’s missives, bright gold for Josie’s diplomatic notes and etiquette lessons, Inquisition green for general scout reports and maps…

She had to get up and refill the lantern a few times and had managed to finish most of the stew – garlicky and full of what she suspected was pheasant, and there was a heel of bread hiding under the messages, too – before she could finally snap the red-wax seal on the last message capsule and pull out Cullen’s letter. Report. His report. On his symptoms. Important distinction.

_Trevelyan,_

_Headaches continue as usual, nothing new to report there. Two days ago it was bad enough to necessitate a dark room and a few hours of quiet, but it hasn’t happened since. The preventative is helpful but it doesn’t do much for those situations – just dulls the pain a bit. I am noticing the cold hands more lately, but it may be due to the weather. Hard to say if the ~~anxo~~ ~~anix~~ ~~however you bloody spell it~~ a n x i o l y t i c is working, but it’s rather subjective, isn’t it? Tastes better than the pain relief, I should add. I will keep you informed._

_Yes, I am actually taking it. I am also eating, at least when I can. Thank you for your concern. I do appreciate it._

_I believe you may be jealous that I’ve befriended your dog. Candor misses you, I think, but she also seems to like sleeping on my feet as yours are not available. One of the cooks is from Ferelden and makes a good Mabari crunch, which she loves, and which also apparently gives her wind. Like everything we feed her. You know, Mabari don’t have this problem._ (“That is a lie,” Mireille said aloud. Mabari were not exactly known for their streamlined digestive systems.)

_As for your question, I would suggest not being in a position where there is a knife at your kidney and one at your throat, if you can help it. If you can’t, perhaps you should try to deescalate the situation? Please don’t let Minna stab you trying to figure this out. Perhaps we can work on the problem when you return to Skyhold, assuming you will be returning to Skyhold before you are due at the peace talks, which it appears you may not given your detour. In the meantime, just be careful, please._

_I hope you found what you were looking for. Travel safely._

_Rutherford._

Mireille sat back against the stool, nearly spilling soup into her lap, and closed her eyes.

She ought to be at least a _little_ annoyed that he couldn’t remember to take half of what she prescribed (…another symptom, possibly?) and that he was stubborn and foolish and, generally, wrong about everything, but if she was going to be honest with herself, reading letters from Cullen had been easily the nicest part of this trip. Even if they were usually about dog farts and how often he threw up. His first letter had just been six pages of notes on every single symptom he’d ever had, including an intensely detailed description of a hangnail, and she’d written back with some extremely prodding questions and treatment options. After she’d laughed for a solid two minutes, at least. He’d replied more briefly after that one. 

It was reassuring. A reminder that life went on, and not always in horrible ways, while she was out killing people and solving problems, usually by killing people.

The day’s horrors flashed behind her eyes, a Templar’s sword in a mage child’s back, and she opened them quickly, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth. When that wasn’t enough to stave off the nausea she bit down.

Once she tasted blood Mireille grunted in disgust and stood up, divesting herself of the tray carefully, and then tucked the letter into her leather jacket for safekeeping. And then hesitated. And laid it on top of the pile of correspondence. And then picked it up and stuffed it at the bottom of the stack.

When she stepped outside the humid air wrapped around her shoulders like the world’s shittiest cloak. She could _feel_ her hair start to frizz up. The Hero of Ferelden, seated by the campfire, glanced up from toying with a ring on her finger as Mireille strolled toward her. Tabris’ black eyes darted down to her hand, then around the tent, then back to her face. “You look like you need a drink, Trev.”

“Or five.” Mireille accepted the proffered flask and sat down, and then coughed a good bit of the liquor into the flames. _“Maker’s balls_ what _is_ that.”

“Conscription ale,” Tabris said happily, taking the flask back. “Well, kind of ale. Made from apples. You drink it after a conscription, to celebrate.” She took a swig with every sign of enjoyment.

“It’s like fire,” Mireille said, still coughing, but she accepted the flask again when it was handed to her. The second swig went down a little easier, at least.

“You get used to it.” Tabris tucked her long legs underneath her, settling in atop the log bench. “See, there you go. You all right?”

The alcohol sent a sharp tingle down the backs of Mireille’s thighs and she shuddered as it settled in her gut. At least it was damping the nausea. She looked into the campfire for a long moment, and then before she could stop herself she said, “You were at Kinloch.”

“During the Blight? Yep.” The flask clanked softly as Tabris took another swig. “Awful place.”

“What _happened?”_

Tabris sighed, and pressed her hands together. And quietly she told Mireille about a man named Uldred, a crazed blood mage, about how she’d stumbled through the tower with her companions – the future King of Ferelden, _Leliana,_ Senior Enchanter Wynne, who Mireille had met once at the College of Magi, a kindly old woman with sharp, sharp eyes – and together they had killed the demons, outwitted them, saved who they could and found…a boy at the top of the tower, the last Templar alive. His friends killed or enthralled, his body broken with torture, he’d urged them to kill every mage left, to burn out the corruption and cut off its head.

And Tabris hadn’t done it. She had killed the abominations and saved everyone she could.

Mireille wondered, for a moment, if she would have agreed with Cu – with the Templar. And then realized she’d said it out loud.

Tabris shrugged. “It wasn’t their fault they were up there.”

“It was _Uldred’s_ fault,” Mireille said, with a surprising amount of snarl.

“Yeah, but not theirs.” The elf tugged on her burned earlobe. “I was seventeen and I had power for the first time in my damn life. Seen too many innocents die just trying to survive. Killed some of ‘em myself, probably. So I didn’t kill them. Not my kind of justice.”

Mireille closed her eyes, turning the flask around and around in her hands. The smooth metal was growing warm from her palms.

“I’m surprised you’d think differently,” Tabris continued, nudging her shoulder.

“I don’t know what I think any more.” Mireille took another swig, just in case it would help, and passed the flask back again. “I…I see why you did it. I’m glad you were there to save them, the children, Wynne…The Right is…it’s not pretty,” she finished, biting down on her tongue to keep from babbling any more.

“I used to think there wasn’t anything pretty in this whole damn world.” To her surprise, Tabris leaned companionably against her shoulder, her scaled surcoat poking Mireille’s arm. “There’s so many horrible things. In and on and under it. You know, I thought I could change it all.”

“You did,” Mireille said. “Didn’t you?”

Tabris laughed. It was a nasty little sound. “They gave Denerim’s alienage – my home – a bann. Then they stoned her to death. Riots in the streets. I came as soon as I heard but it wasn’t soon _enough,_ and it was all for nothing. We were too irresponsible to have a bannorn.” Her voice was brittle and bitter as old coffee. “King of Ferelden, my knife-eared arse. Nothing’s _changed,_ Trev. People listened because they had to and then they stopped as soon as we weren’t all gonna die.”

“I’m sorry,” Mireille said, because there was nothing else she could say, and put her arm around Tabris. Hugging seemed to be the right thing to do. The Warden rested her head atop Mireille’s skull and she heard a low sigh.

“They aren’t,” Tabris said sourly, after a moment. “They never are. Maybe someday we’ll do enough to change their minds. Or maybe they’ll finally stomp us into the ground. Elves, Qunari, mages…”

Mireille looked down at her hands in her lap. The Anchor flashed, a tiny shimmer beneath the half-glove. “You know, they call me a Herald, maybe I can do something. Or at least try. Andraste says: elves are people, don’t be a racist dickhole.”

“Hah. Can’t say I’d take it amiss, shem, but you’ve got your own battles to fight. Mages don’t have it much better.” Tabris tapped Mireille’s palms, left then right. “Only difference is you’re happier about it. They teach you how to hate yourselves so well, you never ask why.”

“I…”

But the children…run through or cut down or opening a vein to reach for the only protection they knew might give a Templar pause. The apprentice from Redcliffe who’d run off into the snowy Frostbacks to fight back, because all she saw in the Inquisition was another tower, another prison, no escape but violent death. The wary eyes of Templar Beckett even as Apprentice Willow took her hand and ran off toward the Skyhold rookery. There was Arden with his sword in her belly and his dead eyes, and the cool-toned look on Cullen’s face that had shocked her to the bone, and even on the other side of a good bit of alcohol, Mireille shuddered at the icy twist in her gut.

 _Magic was made to serve man, not to rule over him,_ which meant: _if you don’t serve the people, you are a threat, and threats will be dealt with._

She’d always wanted to serve, to heal, to understand. Hadn’t she? Hadn’t she known at eight years old what she wanted to do for the rest of her life was _help_ , and then the magic had come as a pleasant surprise, a tool to use for other people…?

Mireille closed her fists, opened them, grasping at the air. “Maker, I can’t think about this. I’m either too drunk or not drunk enough.”

“You’ll make it. Could be worse,” Tabris said, with a whole lot of sardonic cheer, and passed her the flask again. “At least you don’t have to visit the Deep Roads.”

 _“Yet,”_ Mireille replied, and glanced up as the bushes creaked and heralded the arrival of a rather tall and rather unsteady Champion of Kirkwall. Varric was trailing along after him, although Mireille wouldn’t have bet on the likelihood he’d catch Hawke if he fell. There was almost two feet between their respective heads. “I see you found the cask the scouts brought with them.”

“Yep,” Hawke said, collapsing bonelessly to the ground in front of the fire. “Good stuff, I’m impressed.”

“Are you cuddling with the Hero of Ferelden?” Varric asked, and Mireille could swear she heard Tabris roll her eyes. “The Hero of Ferelden is a cuddler? You really can’t make this stuff up. Truth is always better than fiction.”

“The Champion of Kirkwall was comparing muscles with a Qunari mercenary and _that’s_ what astounds you?” Mireille asked. Tabris chuckled and sat up a little straighter.

Hawke’s toes were very nearly in the fire, which put his head on the log. Varric sat down next to him. “I expect that shit from Princess, I’ve been around him long enough.”

Both Tabris and Mireille looked down at the mage stretched out on the ground. His armor was dented, his furry ruff stained, and his dark beard was positively bushy. There was mud from the tips of his boots to halfway up his thighs. His staff appeared to be held together with a knotted old handkerchief and, presumably, the sticking power of hope.

Hawke opened one eye. “I’m a pretty princess,” he said, very seriously.

Mireille snorted. And then she hiccupped. Varric fixed her with a broad grin and she pointed the flask at him. “Shut it, Fuzzy. I’m going to write a book about you, see if I don’t.”

“Make sure it’s tawdry,” Varric said happily, leaning back against the bench. “Just a little.”

“Bolts and Boners: A Man and His Crossbow Find Love,” Hawke mused, and the giggles around the fire echoed off the trees and out into the damp night.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t enough, it was never enough. Mireille dreamed anyway. Or, at least – she remembered her dreams.

She walked through Jainen Circle and saw movement flickering at the corners of her eyes, figures moving closer and vanishing when she glanced. The gaping hole in the tower wall where the Knight Commander’s office should be. She saw a woman in First Enchanter’s robes plant something below a desk, she saw the _explosion,_ as it ripped the tower to pieces – this was the sort of thing Solas did, dreaming through a place to see its story, and perhaps they were still close enough to the tower or perhaps it was her own imagination. Who could tell? There were grinning faces in the walls and in the center of the room, a glowing prison, magical shackles around thin gauntleted wrists. When Cullen looked up at her he _snarled_ and spat like a caged beast, but there were words in it too, breathlessly, desperately fearful, “O Maker, hear my cry, guide me through the blackest nights, steel my heart against the temptations of the _wicked –_ ”

When she reached out to free him he lunged, a sword appearing his hand, and she jolted upright in bed with her fingers tight on her staff.

Dark. Tent. Camp, right. The soft patter of rain on tarp. Quiet snoring from outside. A faint hangover headache building behind her eyes.

Mireille rubbed her damp face and lit the lamp. For a few long minutes she sat on the edge of the bed, rolling her staff between her palms, over and over. The wood was slightly smoother two feet from the head, slightly divoted, where her hands rubbed over the grain.

Her breathing slowed, from fast and harsh to controlled, even.

She dug through her pile of correspondence and found the letter again. Read it one, two, three times, and then again.

She laid down, with the lantern on, and read the letter another time.

It didn’t work. She dreamed of Jainen anyway, of Kinloch and Ostwick and friendly eyes turned to violence, and muffled the rest of her screams in her tearstained pillow.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the only place we hear about Jainen is in a frickin flash game that was hosted on Facebook in 2012 and I have not played it and it's no longer available so I made up most of the details here. (although Jainen is theoretically part of the Waking Sea Bannorn and therefore would be appropriately close to Crestwood, so at least that's somewhat accurate.) If Ferelden is the size of ENGLAND why do they only have one Circle?? they don't. they probably have like five or six, and they're just way smaller than Kinloch Hold. 
> 
> i absolutely imagine Bolts and Boners to be a Chuck Tingle-esque novella that becomes wildly popular overnight and prompts several sequels with increasingly meta titles. lots of reference to shafts. 
> 
> next chapter will probably be delayed until lateish next week due to holiday obligations, but this one clocks in at almost 7000 words so hopefully it will suffice. :)  
> EDIT: okay it might be delayed longer than that. i'm working on it, though! it's gonna end up being another like 10000 word chapter and I'm hoping i can get it out sometime this first week of december. i will definitely make up for lateness with SHEER QUANTITY OF WORDS.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> latter half of this chapter is NSFW. time for that rating change. :)

Halamshiral. It meant “the end of the journey,” in elvish – Mireille had looked it up what felt like years ago, back in Skyhold. She was beginning to suspect that someone had mistranslated it as “the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,” and decorated accordingly.

There was _so much gilt._

She’d once thought Skyhold was posh, with its stained glass and the extravagant throne, the elegant frescoes Solas painted, the polished wood furniture. And it was posh in its own way, vast and imposing and beautiful, especially compared to post-rebellion Kirkwall and the austerity of Ostwick Circle and even to the simple lines of her father’s manor, way back in the mists of childhood. But Skyhold was plain and rustic compared to this, and after two separate mudslides, four herds of elk, two full weeks of nightmares and a particularly nasty group of bandits on the road from Jainen that had delayed their arrival until four hours ago, she had whiplash from the gleam. If Orlais could have gilded its servants, it would have. Whereas she was still pretty sure there was mud in her hair somewhere even after all the hurried scrubbing. It made her feel almost out of place in this gleaming, glimmering, glistening hall, a black-and-white magpie among peacocks.

Almost. It was the cloak, she mused, sweeping past a chatting group without a second glance. The long white shirt, more than half a dress, was elegant, if showcasing some rather extravagant cleavage. The tall black boots were certainly graceful and clicked satisfyingly on the floor, easy to stride in. The green sash had hidden pockets and cinched in her waist over the corset, practical and distinctive, a splash of color. But the _cloak…_

The Inquisition sunburst eye was embroidered on the back, subtle dark green and light, shot with silver and just subtle enough to be slightly difficult to see. The high collar, the silver chain holding it across her shoulders, the soft sweep of fine black wool just over the floor, it all gave the impression of pure unquestionable authority. It was a _good_ cloak, good for striding majestically and getting everyone to step out of your damn way, which was good, as she’d just been handed a key and told that the empress’s occult advisor had killed a Tevinter agent, and she could _not_ find Leliana in the crowded ballroom.

Mireille swept around the circle again, searching the sea of cream and blue and gold for a black-and-white Inquisition outfit – or at least for Leliana’s brilliant red hair – and finally drifted over to the only familiar face she could find, although she had to fight through a crowd to do so. “Commander. Inquisition business, if you have a moment.”

Cullen looked _hassled._ Probably because a comte was trying very hard to link elbows with him. “Yes, Inquisitor, let’s walk. Excuse me, Comte,” he said frostily, and Mireille shot the man a glare for good measure until he backed away.

“Thank you,” Cullen muttered in fervent relief, as they strode away. “Orlais can’t keep its damnable hands to itself… What is it?”

“The occult advisor killed a Venatori agent,” she replied under her breath. “Gave me a key. She wants to prevent the assassination but can’t leave the empress. I’m going to take Dorian and Cassandra with me into the servants’ quarters, see if it might be connected to all the blood. They’re moving that way now, but I wanted to let someone know before we vanished. Can you tell Leliana and Josie? Vivienne and Varric will cover our tracks and make our excuses.”

“Maker’s breath.” He kept pace with her, as she led him out and around the ballroom, out the wide doors, and scowled as a comtesse looked up hopefully. “I suppose it’s no surprise that Corypheus would use the Venatori here. Red Templars aren’t subtle. We have four men stationed out on the grounds and four on the guest suite, and Rylen and Cooper are mingling in here. And I know Leliana’s people in the palace are marked, wearing red. Be careful, if you’re caught – ”

“I know a few stealth spells. We’ll be fine.” She paused, watching a baron walk by with his eyes firmly fixed on Cullen. “You certainly seem…popular.”

“I’ve been – _ogled_ more in the last two hours than in the last decade,” he grumbled. “I tried to talk to them about trebuchets and all I got were sex jokes and what I suspect were some very lewd comments in Orlesian. A Marcher told me I could check the grain on his wood any time.”

“Well, we are an uncivilized people,” Mireille said absently, glaring down the baron until he walked off blanching. “But that’s not even very good, I’m sure I could think of something much funnier.”

He groaned. “Not you too…”

“I’d suggest threatening them. That’s how I got the Marquis de Something to leave me alone.”

Cullen stared at her, as they passed into the lion statue room. It very likely had an official name, but she hadn’t bothered to pay attention to it; there were enough names to remember. “You threatened a Marquis.”

“He suggested that the Inquisition could benefit from his ‘favor’ and asked if I wanted a taste of said favor, perhaps in the courtyard.” She made a face. “So I told him it would require a much larger favor than he could possibly offer and also that he could shove it up his ass.”

“Not if it was that small,” he muttered. “The logistics alone…”

Mireille grinned up at him. “Rutherford, that was positively _saucy._ Have you managed to remove the stick from your ass this evening?” 

“Four different people have attempted to discern that for themselves already, and I’ve had two glasses of extremely sweet wine and three weeks on tenterhooks wondering whether you’d make it on time.” But there was a smile hovering around the corner of his mouth as they drifted past the door to the servants’ quarters and down the stairs. The room was quiet, nearly deserted but for a pair of chevaliers chatting in the corner. “Allow me a bit of sauce, Trevelyan.”

“I made it on time.”

“Barely,” he said, regarding the nearest statue – a lion so shiny she could see their reflections in it – his voice wry and vaguely amused. “And now there are Tevinter assassins and pushy nobility and you, by the way, never wrote me back.”

Mireille’s grin, which had been fueled mostly by the manic energy of insomnia and the full glass of wine she’d gulped down about ten minutes ago, faded a bit. “I know. I…” She scowled at herself and swallowed hard. “Sorry. It’s…been a busy few weeks.”

“Yes, I heard. Mudslides, bandits…and the Circle, I – ” He stopped himself, glancing down at her. “You have assassins to catch, and I’m keeping you from it. We can debrief on this later.”

“There’ll be plenty of time after the talks, yes.” She folded her arms, her eyes fixed on the statue. He’d written her so familiarly, joked with her so freely, that when she _did_ remember he was still the Commander, still a former Templar – and when that trail of thought led directly to Kinloch, through Jainen, all the way back to Ostwick – it was almost a shock. Hard to reconcile the man making derisive comments about Orlesian pricks with…all of that, all the heavy weight of the broken Circles on his shoulders and on hers.

Her mind kept drifting back to the carnage when she wasn’t paying enough attention, putting familiar faces on the broken bodies, poking at the memory like a bad tooth. Thus, wine. “Maybe we can debrief with drinks. Lots and lots of them.”

“It was that bad?” Cullen asked softly. “Your report wasn’t very detailed.”

“Yes.” Mireille closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, then out.

She heard him shift, the scratch of his wool coat, and then his elbow nudged against her upper arm. Just a gentle reminder that he was, in fact, standing right next to her. “I’m sorry. I…know, a little, how that feels. Not quite the same, I know, but…I’m sorry.”

The warmth of his arm through her sleeve shouldn’t have been reassuring, shouldn’t have been anything but a friendly touch, but – between the lack of sleep, the weariness of travel, the lingering fear and horror clinging tight to her shoulder blades – she let herself lean into him, taking the comfort where she could find it, source be damned. Gossip be damned. Everything be damned. He was warm and solid and she was so, so tired. Her cheek pressed against his deltoid and she heard the soft intake of breath from above her head.

But – Maker damn it all, she couldn’t get past it, the empty eye sockets of dead children and the _Right_ sitting there neat as you please on a Knight-Captain’s desk, and a few months of withdrawal and some flirtatious letters couldn’t – distance him far enough, in her mind, from that, and – and, well, she wasn’t anywhere near drunk enough to think about this any longer.

Mireille straightened and shook herself. And stepped away a pace, so she wouldn’t be tempted to do that again. “I’d better – I should go find an assassin.”

“Yes, of course.” Cullen had turned a rather interesting shade of pink, but he was still gazing down at her, in something reminiscent of amazement. “I – be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” she said, and when he raised one eyebrow she scoffed, grinning weakly in spite of herself. “I am, don’t give me that.”

“I seem to remember reading a few reports that contradict that. Does being tackled by a zombie qualify as careful?”

“I mean, they are particularly good at tackling, and also, stop reading my reports so carefully.”

He huffed a laugh, and leaned forward, and said, “Then _be_ more careful, Trevelyan,” in a low amused rumble that shot straight through her hips. And reached out, a soft “Hold on” freezing her in place, and adjusted the hang of one of her earrings. His gloved fingertips brushed her jawbone, warm and soft and electric.

And then, blushing at the ears, he smiled at her and walked away.

Mireille stood there for a long, long moment, watching him leave, and when she was absolutely sure he’d gone, raised her hand to her mouth and carefully bit down on her fingers to avoid biting down on her painted lips.

After a moment she had to shake herself again, shuddering away that spike of arousal, the warm flush of – of _fondness,_ which was utterly ridiculous, because there was no way she _liked_ the stuffy uptight former Templar, the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall, no less – although Cullen Rutherford who made dick jokes when he was tipsy, that might be another story – and glanced around to make sure those chevaliers had left before slipping through the servants’ entrance.

Dorian and Cassandra were waiting, with the bag of equipment Leliana’s people had stashed in a barrel open on the floor. Dorian’s eyes lit up when Mireille opened the door. “Finally! I was considering locating the wine cellar if you delayed any longer – you _are_ quite red.”

She frowned at him. “I am not, I’m almost as brown as you are.”

“Yes, I did wonder about that. Perhaps I should check the genealogies. You may have some Tevinter in you after all.”

“We are wasting time,” Cassandra said, checking the fit of her sword belt. “But you do look rather flustered, Inquisitor.”

“I am – the opposite of flustered,” Mireille protested. “I am calm and collected.”

As she set off down the hall, fitting together the separate halves of her fancy blackwood staff, she heard Dorian murmur, “Although, I did hear the _Commander – ”_

“No,” she said flatly.

“No? Do mine ears deceive me?”

“Yes, and I knew I was going to regret teaching you that eavesdropping trick.”

“Hm. Apparently mine ears _do_ deceive me, Cassandra. I could have _sworn_ I heard our dear Commander chatting with the Inquisitor.”

“Oh? But I imagine it would be about business or some such, hardly something flustering…”

“Cassandra, you’re the worst.”

“Are you not feeling the emotion of friendship, Inquisitor? What was it you said – friendship is ribbing each other until someone gives up?”

“Cassandra, have I mentioned you’re the worst?”

“Cassandra, you are undoubtedly the best.”

 

* * *

 

“She knew…she knew Florianne would attack the Empress. How did she know?”

“A prophecy from Andraste…”

“Hah! Collusion, most likely. Why else would she have that rabbit named a marquise? The Inquisition wanted a puppet in Orlais and it got one, and the Empress’ favor to boot.”

“I think the elf will do just fine.”

“You can’t trust them…”

“She’s not some backwoods apostate, she’s a _knight-enchanter._ Did you see that sword? Came right out of thin air.”

“They are _all_ backwoods apostates now, you know.”

“Who needs a magic sword? She put that staff right through Florianne.”

“Florianne and six assassins and she’s barely even limping. Maker’s breath, I wonder where she’s staying tonight.”

“She’s a holy herald, Annette, she has no time for such things.”

“Andraste had two husbands! I can dream. Maybe the Herald of Andraste will have two wives…”

_“Annette.”_

“Where’s the Templar gone?”

“The pretty one? Haven’t seen him for a while now. Maybe he finally took Jacques up on that offer.”

“I don’t like it. He ought to keep a closer eye on the _bruja_.”

“You know she’s Circle…”

“You know what happened in Kirkwall? Void, in Ostwick? Circle mages are even worse than the wild ones…”

It was amazing, Mireille thought as she drained her wineglass for the third time, what people would say if they thought you weren’t listening. If they thought you couldn’t hear. To be fair, most people weren’t Senior Enchanter Mireille Trevelyan and therefore would have a much more difficult time listening to the tides of gossip from out on the balcony, where the air was cool and she didn’t have to convince the night breeze she’d never heard that little prick call her a _bruja,_ after she’d risked her Maker-damned skin to save his Empress’s precious backside –

She breathed, slowly, in and out, and rolled the empty glass between her fingers until the red haze of rage passed. The damp friendly breeze pressed itself against her cheek. A welcome change from the heady scents of perfume and musk, wine and blood, covered up by more damn perfume and still staining between the tiles where Florianne had died.

It seemed like half of Orlais had packed into the already stuffy ballroom to watch her confront the Grand Duchess, to see peace dealt out by the end of a sword. Well, technically, staff, but a foot of metal between the ribs is a foot of metal no matter how long or fancy the handle is. And, apparently, that was how peace worked: you murdered the perpetrator and yelled at some nobles until they agreed to work together like adults, and then you got drunk and listened to some other nobles talk about you for hours on end. How very civilized.

And there was barely even any blood on her pristine white shirt. It felt like cheating.

Oh, there were bruises from shins to thighs from clambering around courtyards, cuts on her knuckles from a Venatori’s staff, several twinging slashes and scrapes that she’d barely had the mana to scab over, diverting it to the wound on her cheekbone so that she _looked_ unscathed. And coming out visibly uninjured after a fight with six assassins and Florianne de Chalons was _impressive,_ apparently. It was probably the reason why half the people who’d actually spoken directly to her were timidly offering support and the other half were carefully propositioning her.

Maker, just this morning she’d been coated in mud and waiting for another bandit attack to delay them further. Was that better?

Did it matter what was _better,_ anymore?

She leaned a little harder on the railing, staring up at the moons, and didn’t turn around when behind her Leliana said quietly, “Inquisitor.”

“Seneschal,” Mireille replied, tugging her earlobe to dismiss the eavesdropping spell. “I didn’t know I had a seneschal, by the way.”

“Spymaster is so…blatant.” The spymaster joined her at the rail, her long black surcoat whispering behind her over the floor. “Any interesting gossip?”

“Oh, the usual. Half of them want to sleep with me, half of them want me burned at the stake, half of them believe I’m holy and want to sleep with me anyway.” She managed to keep her voice light, derisive, but it was an effort. “Shouldn’t you be gathering gossip, by the way?”

“I’m letting a few of them stew for a bit.” Leliana brushed her hair back from her face, turning her pale eyes on Mireille. “And checking in. How are you, Herald?”

“Tired. Sore. I think I still have mud in my hair from the _first_ mudslide we ran into. I also think my tits might choke me if I take a deep breath.” Mireille ticked items off on her fingers and then wiggled them, juggling the empty glass in the other hand. “Other than that, I’m great. How are you?”

Leliana snorted, very delicately. “The vicissitudes of fashion, I’m afraid. I’m well, thank you, but then I am quite fond of parties in the first place.” She shifted, twining her fingers together. “You’ve accomplished quite a lot tonight, you know. Scolding the most powerful people in Orlais is not the tactic I would have chosen, but it seems to have worked. And you’ve barely offended anyone.”

“Yes, well, if you stuff me full of wine I have a nearly endless capacity for politeness,” Mireille replied, peering at her wineglass in case it had spontaneously filled itself. “I’m surprised they weren’t more offended about, you know, executing the Grand Duchess.”

“Oh, no. She attacked _you._ You were well within your rights, and she would only have been trouble if kept alive.” Leliana shrugged. “You did what was right and what was needed.”

“Did I?” Mireille pressed her lips together, because she really hadn’t meant to say that last bit out loud. Damn the wine. Bless the wine, actually, it was keeping the little screaming sober part of her at bay, the bit that replayed the shudder of metal on bone through her fingertips every so often.

Had it been this bad in Crestwood? Not quite, except for those Red Templars. The bandits had been _bad,_ not least because they’d gotten lucky and caught Bull a nasty set of arrow wounds before she could get there to intervene with sword and staff. The undead were a little easier, already passed on, it was a mercy to put them down. Demons were horrifying but they weren’t _people._ Well, if you talked to Solas, they sort of were…but her stomach didn’t twist when she fought them in the same way. You trained all your life to know what they looked like, to fight against them, in a Circle – if a little more metaphorically than this.

A soft touch on her arm made her jump, and Leliana tilted her head. “It will get easier, Inquisitor. You’ve saved lives and you’ve prevented a very dark future, at least in part. You’ve shown Orlais that the Inquisition, and especially the Inquisitor, cares about their future. They’ll throw in behind you.”

Mireille laughed, a sharp little sound, just a little too drunk to catch the words before they left her mouth. “And call me every name in the book when they think I can’t hear.”

Leliana sighed, her eyebrows drawing together just slightly. “Yes, that as well. It’s unfair. You’ve done so much for them, and some can’t look past what you are.”

“Well, when you light someone on fire in the middle of a ballroom, it’s a bit hard to ignore…”

“No.” The spymaster’s soft voice suddenly went hard and fierce. “Just because you’ve reminded them what magic can do doesn’t mean they’ve the right – magic is another weapon, for you. It’s also a gift.” Leliana shook her head firmly. “People may be people, but they cannot ignore that you are a mage _and_ the person who has helped them end a war. They may resist and complain and bicker and call names, but they will respect you. They _must.”_

Mireille blinked. “Leliana, I didn’t know you were such an idealist.”

“I’ve known too many good mages persecuted for what they were born with.” Two spots of pink appeared high on her cheekbones, her usual stone-calm expression replaced with faint worry and frustration. “It’s unfair. It’s not justified. A sword or a bow kills just as well as fire or lightning.”

“They like you when you’re playing by their rules,” Mireille found herself saying, dry and bitter. “Which is fine if you’re…if you’re in a good Circle. If you have a talent they approve of.” The words hurt to say, either too drunk or not drunk enough to consider the ramifications, and she was turning over the empty glass, over and over.

Leliana was gazing at her, her pale eyes full of – some kind of emotion, something righteous and angry that Mireille knew she ought to be feeling too, but all she felt was hollow, drained out. So she looked away, out at the rising fog.

Beside her Leliana leaned forward on the rail with a long, slow sigh, like steam releasing. “I’m sorry, Herald. I can’t imagine this is easy for you to think on, especially after your latest trip.”

Mireille nodded, not quite trusting herself to say more, in case her jumbled feelings poured out in a flood. How could one person feel both full of tangled thoughts and entirely empty at the same time? She was managing it, nevertheless.

“Is there anything I can do?” Leliana asked, more quietly.

“Do you have a bottle of wine hidden in your outfit somewhere?”

The spymaster laughed, a soft merry sound that Mireille wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever heard before. “I’m afraid not, but I am sure one could be arranged. Josie and I won’t be long, if you want to head back to the suite. Take Varric, or perhaps Cullen, I’m sure he’s quite tired of the party.” She narrowed her eyes and Leliana scoffed. “I’m not suggesting anything salacious, just that you do not drink yourself into a stupor alone, Inquisitor. And when you’re not bickering about mages and Templars, you two get along like a house on fire.”

Tiredly, Mireille replied, “It’s rather a loaded subject, don’t you think?”

“I know.” Leliana gave her that cool even stare that she seemed so fond of, the one that said _I know all your secrets so don’t bother hiding them,_ although her voice was still soft and kind _._ “But associating with you…he’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, less uptight, much less stern. And you seem to enjoy his company as well. And his letters, judging by how he looks when he reads yours, although I promise I haven’t peeked.”

Why were her cheeks warm? Damn it all. Leliana turned away, finally, and continued with amusement, “And he is quite pretty, after all.”

“Maker, Leliana.” Unsaid: _he is a Templar, he_ was _a Templar, he’s killed people like me and I’ve killed people like him, he’s a decent man when he’s not being a bullheaded prick, the last time I got close to a Templar I nearly died, the Circles may have failed us both but after this is over they’ll only want one of us to go back like nothing happened, he is_ such _a bullheaded prick sometimes, I have put my mouth on his mouth and I would like to do it again._

Leliana just smiled faintly and glanced back into the ballroom. “I should be off. Please don’t be disheartened, Herald. You’ve done very well tonight. You should be proud.”

And the spymaster turned and left, the crowd opening to swallow her whole.

The breeze blew cool, and this time Mireille shivered as the damp air crossed her skin. Some undefinable unease had crawled up her spine during that conversation and it wasn’t fading. She tried to shake herself and only succeeded in knocking a few curls out of place, tried to brush them back and found her hands were shaking, too.

She turned, so quickly she nearly tripped on her own cloak, and strode back into the ballroom. Find a bottle of something alcoholic. Find the guest suite. Lick her wounds and pass out. Simple, no room for thought. That she could probably manage.

 

* * *

 

It seemed like every time Mireille closed her eyes she was in familiar halls, wandering the corridors she’d known all her life and looking for the fallen bodies she knew were there. Waiting for them to show up. Wondering what Arden’s face looked like now, after more than four years of rot.

Maybe a demon had taken interest in her dreamscape. It’d happened before, on occasion, but she couldn’t feel any other presence here, just her own thundering heartbeat as she turned the key in her office door, as she opened it to find – to find – the room spinning around her as she stared into empty eyes, into the face of Arden of Florianne of a Venatori assassin of a dead man a dead woman a hundred bodies drawing their final breath through perforated lungs, felt the sharp blades they held touch her skin, heard a hundred voices murmur _you ended us and we will end you,_ and she _knew_ with that awful nightmare certainty that this time she’d die and found with surprise that she _didn’t want to_ –

She woke up halfway to the floor, and hit it with a loud _thump_ and an undignified yelp.

For a minute she just lay there, breathing, her hands on her stomach, staring at the ceiling. Trying to focus her eyes again. Trying to be calm.

Maker, she hadn’t even taken off her cloak. Or her boots. She’d just sat down on the lounge by the fire in one of the suite’s bedrooms and apparently passed out two sips into a bottle of whiskey, although maybe the four glasses of wine had helped. And now there would be another bruise on her hip, dammit, not to mention the stinging feeling above her elbow that suggested a torn scab.

There was a soft sound from the hallway, like footsteps, and Mireille flinched again just before the quiet knock. She’d left the door partly open and it wasn’t entirely a relief when Cullen’s voice carried in clear and soft. “Inquisitor?”

She managed to form words, finally. “I’m – I’m all right.”

He nudged the door open a little farther, peeking around it, and she swallowed down another flinch when she saw the naked sword in his hand. But he visibly relaxed when he saw only her in the room. “No late-night assassins, then?”

“No.” She pulled herself to a sitting position, rubbing at her face. “I’m…no. I’m all right.”

Cullen sheathed his sword, wrapping the sword belt around the scabbard again – it looked like he’d taken it off and just picked up the whole apparatus once he’d heard a noise. It also looked as if he didn’t believe her for an instant. But he glanced down the hallway anyway. “If you say so, Inquisitor. I, um. I’ll leave you be.”

“Please – stay.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she clamped her jaw shut in case something else stupid managed to fly out. Some explanation was needed, some further words would be helpful right about now, to play off how small and desperate her voice had been – to wipe the startled look off his face – and she had nothing. All she could do was avert her eyes from his and blush very hard and hope the dim light and her complexion hid it well enough.

Quietly, still looking at her, he stepped into the room and shut the door.

Mireille’s gaze finally lit on the nearly full bottle of whiskey, and she popped the cork out and drank directly from it, the cool liquid clearing the haze of residual drunkenness and clinging nightmare. When she finally lowered it she met Cullen’s eyes quite by accident and scoffed at the frowning concern on his face. “Don’t tell me you’ve never woken up after a – a dream and needed a drink, Rutherford.”

“I have,” he replied quietly. “I…wouldn’t have expected you to have that problem as well.”

“Yes, well, here we are.” She drank again, because the burn of whiskey made her feel at least marginally more awake and if she fell asleep now she’d drop right back into that nightmare. “Surprise.” Ah, yes, being derisive was _much_ more comfortable than being sincere and vulnerable.

He was giving her a look, a very long and searching look, and instead of addressing that she said, “What time is it?”

“Late, past midnight, I think. No one wanted to wake you, you seemed to need the rest.” Cullen rubbed at his neck. He was still dressed, right down to the shiny black formal boots and the jacket slung over his shoulder, but there were a few buttons open at the neck of the silk shirt and his hair was rumpled, his eyes bleary. “The…other sleeping arrangements have already been made, but we’ve left this room for you, the others went to bed some time ago. It’s been quiet otherwise. We’ve guard patrols round the gardens and Briala’s agents are out there as well. You…all right, please hand me that, I would very much prefer not to watch you drink yourself to death.”

Mireille handed over the bottle, somewhat lighter now, and shivered. “That’s fair. Ugh.”

He considered the whiskey for a moment, then set it down on one of the end tables. “All right, come on. Let’s get your boots off. I suspect if you do fall asleep again you’ll be more comfortable without boots.”

“I’m perfectly capable of removing my own boots, you’ve still got your own boots on, and – I’ll be all right,” she said crossly, not actually resisting as she was nudged back down onto one end of the lounge by the shoulders.

“You’re not all right at the moment,” he replied, easing himself down onto the other end. “I realize you’re required to argue because it’s in your nature, but – Maker knows you’ve been happy to boss me around when it’s needed, Trevelyan. Please allow me to do the same for you.”

She glared at him, in case it’d help.

He gave her an exasperated look and said more softly, “You did ask me to stay.”

“…you’ve got me there.” She sagged back against the arm of the lounge, and let him lift her leg and pull off her boot in a series of sharp tugs, leaving her in just a sock. “You would make a _terrible_ handmaid,” she added, through the fog of sleep and the growing cloud of whiskey.

“And your feet don’t precisely smell of roses, but I wasn’t planning to mention it, thank you.” Cullen worked at the other boot, tugging it carefully off her foot. Not, she noticed, actually shying away from the task he’d appointed himself, although he plucked at her sock for a moment, clearly confused as to why he couldn’t tug it off. “I…would you like to talk about it?”

“Talk about how bad of a handmaid you are?” Her fingers, clumsy with drink and sleep, pulled at the chain that held her cloak clasped. “I’m sure I could go on. Leave my socks alone.”

“I’m sure you could, but I meant whatever it is that was so unpleasant that you woke up and immediately began drinking.” He took over, unhooking the chain at her throat without even brushing his fingers against her skin. “I have a guess, but…” Carefully, he pushed the wool off her shoulders and over her arms, letting it pool behind her, leaning close enough she could smell cedar and wine and sweat and then leaning away just as quickly as he’d come.

“Do you?” Mireille said under her breath, shutting her eyes.

It’d be easier if she could just float away. If she could stop feeling the creeping chill in her spine and just go numb at last, if she could lay back and let these soft touches lull her into something like calmness. Her arm was taken, the laces holding her glove tight around her forearm loosened. One glove was peeled off, leaving her right hand clammy in the cool air.

The world was beginning to feel fuzzy at the edges. Just a little flimsy, like it might tear apart at any second. Like her words would fall and be absorbed by the silent halls of the Winter Palace and never leave here, although realistically it was probably just the whiskey and the lack of sleep.  

“I don’t know how many people I’ve killed tonight.” Her voice sounded low and rough with drink in her own ears, and she shifted, legs crossing, then uncrossing. “I lost track somewhere on the third group of Venatori. It happened too fast.”

There was only the sound of laces on leather as Cullen loosened her other glove, tugged it off her hand. His fingers were cool and rough on her forearm.

“I used to know exactly how many people I’d killed. And now I don’t.” She grimaced, her fingers twitching in her lap. “I’m sure it was…it was for the best, whatever, maybe I should be _proud,_ but – Maker, I’m tired of it, I wish I didn’t know how it feels to stab someone in the fucking lung, but there’s – I can’t see any other way to accomplish what we have to do. I can’t figure out if there’s another way than to – to kill, over and over again _._ ” Every sentence felt like a scab ripped off too soon, felt like bleeding.

“Sometimes you have to.” Cullen’s voice was quiet, maybe a little sad, his hands still on her arm. “Sometimes killing is the only way to make things right, to save the people you’ve sworn to protect. You have to keep people safe by removing the threats against them. Venatori, assassins…”

“That is a very Templar thing to say,” she muttered, peering through slitted eyes at him, and he looked away almost immediately, dropping her arm into her lap.

For a long moment he was quiet. There was a sharp crease between his eyebrows that hadn’t been there before, his body canted away from hers. But his hands were steady as he reached back for the bottle, as he drank deeply and held it for a moment, and hers were trembling as she reached for it. He let her take it. Finally he spoke, resigned and weary and unable to meet her eyes. “Well, I’ve only ever been a Templar, Senior Enchanter. It’s reportedly very hard to teach an old dog new tricks.”

“Mm.” She drank again, swallowed hard around the burning liquid. Carefully she lowered the bottle, her fingers still shaking, despite the loose heady feeling of alcohol in her veins. “You all think like that, don’t you? That why the Right exists. To protect everyone else, to remove a _threat._ Whatever the Knight-Commander _thinks_ is a threat.” Maker, when had she learned to use her voice like a knife? The word _threat_ made him flinch like she’d struck him.

Cullen met her gaze at last, his eyes dark with something very much like grief. “Yes. It’s…that’s part of why I left the Order.”

The biting retort sat heavy on the tip of her tongue, ready to fly, but what good would it do? His fingers brushed her own as he leaned over and took the bottle, drank longer and deeper, this time. Like he meant to forget. She could nearly see the thoughts lining up in his head.

He sighed, setting the bottle between them in the crook of the cushions, and rubbed his hand across his face. “I – I used to think being a Templar meant something. Something good and honest. I don’t know that it ever did, now. I don’t know that…that we ever did something truly good.”

“At least it’s clear, if you’re a mage. You belong in a tower, doing what you’re told.” The bitterness in her voice surprised her. Surprised Cullen too, because he glanced up in question. Mireille shook her head and drew her knees up onto the lounge, tucking her stocking feet in between the cushions for warmth. “I shouldn’t miss it as much as I do.”

“The world is very simple, in the Circle,” he said, his eyes dropping, gazing at her knotted hands draped over her knees. Maybe at the faint green glow between her palms. “Until one looks at it from outside, perhaps. And sees what we’ve done to mages, what we’ve made of Templars.”

“Depressing, isn’t it?” She caught the neck of the bottle between her fingers, rolling the glass between two knuckles.

For a moment he was quiet, his eyes a little unfocused. Then he said, carefully, “Why did you go to Jainen?”

Why _had_ she gone? Because it was there. Because she’d never, in the end, gone back to Ostwick. Because she’d never figured out what happened to the bodies at home, because she wanted the library’s knowledge, because she liked tormenting herself… “It had to be done,” she said at last, and drank again.

Cullen gave her a look full of worry, and the dim light of the banked fire caught in his eyes as he tilted his head, turned them clear and warm and amber-bright. “By you? If you – you didn’t have to go yourself. You could have left it for someone else, anyone else, and spared yourself the nightmares.” She opened her mouth to reply and he scoffed. “You don’t look like you’ve slept properly in some time, Trevelyan, and yes, before you say anything, that _is_ the pot calling the kettle whatever the pot called the kettle, and as a near-professional insomniac I do believe I know what I’m talking about.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re being very thorough about this argument.”

“I’ve had several weeks to think of it.” Those fire-bright eyes flickered over her, just briefly, a consideration of some kind as he took the whiskey. “I…I hope you didn’t go for my sake. That’s not – you don’t have to do such things on my account.”

“I didn’t,” Mireille said, sitting forward. “I did want their library, yes, but I – I didn’t go for you.” She shut her eyes, let the world spin a moment, opened them to look into his face again. “Leliana told you what happened at Ostwick.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” he said, frowning. Shifting forward too, so that his arm draped across the back of the lounge.

“I never went back after. I meant to, I just never had the money. There was never a safe time.” She sighed, and blinked back the sudden burn of approaching tears at the corners of her eyes. “But it was my home. I…I needed to know if other broken Circles looked like mine after the rebellion. I needed to see.”

Her fingers had landed back in her lap, grasping at nothing, and Cullen’s hand twitched as if he’d considered moving it and thought better of it. He shook his head. “I don’t believe I’ll ever understand you.”

“You don’t need to.” She shut her eyes again, pushing back the tears until they finally retreated.

“I’d _like_ to,” he said dryly. “It would make my life easier.”

“Get used to disappointment.” The bottle felt cool and reassuringly solid under her fingers. She drank, the gleam of the Anchor in her palm reflecting through the glass and sending little spangles of green dancing over his shirt. “Or you could try stabbing someone and then getting very drunk. That appears to be most of what I do these days, if you’d like to walk a mile in my shoes.”

He hesitated, his eyes flickering over her again, up and down – dark now, he’d turned his head from the fire – but accepted the bottle when she handed it over.

Mireille sat back, adjusting her legs until her foot brushed against his folded knee, and found herself murmuring, “Does it get easier?”

“Which part?”

“The stabbing part. I know how easy drinking is.”

Cullen drank, and she watched him swallow, watched his throat work and his lips press against the glass. And then halfheartedly scolded herself for it, because even drunk, she ought to know better. He lowered the bottle after a long moment, set it down on the floor, this time. “It…it does. And to be quite honest, you got through the night with much less stabbing than we’d anticipated. You should be proud.”

Mireille laughed, sudden and harsh-edged. “Yes, I should, shouldn’t I? Stopped a civil war all in one night, and I only had to kill a few handfuls of people to do it. I should be _proud_ of myself. I’m a damn fine weapon. Unleash me on a problem and I’ll put all of Thedas back the fuck together.”

He didn’t meet her eyes, just settled back against the cushions, and in the dim flickering light the lines on his face stood out like they’d been carved there by an unkind sculptor. “There are worse things in this world to be than a weapon.”

“Are there, Templar?” she asked, and Cullen glanced up and then away, his hand coming up to rub at his neck almost in self-defense.

She waited, and he finally met her gaze again, still rubbing at the nape of his neck with one hand. “You’re very good at throwing that in my face.” But he didn’t sound particularly angry about it, just…tired.

“You’re good at reminding me what you – what they taught you,” she said, sitting forward to grab the bottle again, her knee knocking against his. “Unfortunately.”

He batted her hand away. “I think we’ve both had quite enough of that.”

“Nonsense, I’m not even morose yet.” She reached farther this time, leaning nearly across his lap.

This time he caught her hand and pinned it just above his own knee. “You’ve been confiding in me for the past half hour, Trevelyan. If this isn’t morose I’d hate to see what is.”

Okay, fair. Mireille bit her lip and glanced up, and when she tried to sneak her other hand across he caught that one too. “I’m just…it’s… _words,”_ she said, wiggling her fingers in his grip. “I’m not _confiding,_ I’m – ”

“I can’t quite figure it out either.” Cullen shifted again, adjusting his grip so her captive palm splayed over his knee and flickered gently green across the black leather. His hands were _warm_ – all broad palms and long, surprisingly narrow fingers, rough with use, scraping against her own cuts and calluses. “I…feel like I ought to be the last person you’d want to confide in, much less help.”

“Well, most of the time you treat me like I’m a person instead of a mage or the Inquisitor or what have you.”

“Most of the time?” he asked, quietly, as if he already knew the answer.

“Most of the time.” Somehow she managed to meet his gaze steadily. “You’ll get there.”

“Or you’ll make me, I suspect.” He gave her a quick, weak smile, a flash of pale light gone in a moment. Was he rubbing his thumb along hers intentionally? It seemed absent, a gesture of preoccupation. “I – I do appreciate it. I know what kind of man I am, what I’ve done. I hope I’m not that man any longer, but – well. Old dogs, old habits. What have you.”

Mireille found herself squeezing his knee beneath her hand. Maker, he was six inches away and hadn’t she been over twelve thousand times why it wasn’t a good idea to get this close? She couldn’t remember any of those arguments now, with Cullen’s hands wrapped around hers and his wrists propped on her thigh, with the building warmth in the small space between their bodies, and she’d paused too long to stare at him, because he was giving her a bit of a funny look. She had to shake herself before she could respond. “Maker, we’re a pair, aren’t we? The Circles chewed us both up and spat us out, left us to pick up the pieces. What a mess.”

“There is a small difference.” He sighed, shut his eyes. “I was willing and you weren’t.”

Was she? She’d always thought it a boon that she got to escape life as a bann’s third daughter, that she’d always wanted to be a healer, but was she _willing,_ always? It had been twenty-four years since she’d entered the Circle. Even without lyrium, memory was unreliable. Mireille scowled at herself. “I – Maker, this _shit_. If we weren’t what we are – ”

Cullen’s eyes opened as soon as she bit down hard on her lip, to stop the whiskey-fueled words before anything _else_ could escape her mouth. His expression shifted, slowly, into confusion and then wary interest, and he said, “Mireille, I – ” at about the same time she gave up staring at him, said “Oh, fuck it,” and closed the six-inch gap to kiss him.

He didn’t hesitate for a second, just reached forward and hauled her into his lap in a tangle of knees that didn’t matter, because his tongue was in her mouth sweet and smoky-sharp with whiskey, and finally, finally, she could bring her hands up to his chest, run them along his ribs, feel the hard planes of muscle overlaid with just a little softness that she’d only touched in passing during combat training. He was solid, he was warm and trembling under her, he shook a little harder when she pulled at his lip with her teeth, stroking his hands along her thighs and uncoiling the pent-up need that had been building there since he’d walked into the damn room all rumpled with sleep.

Finally she had to break away, hazy with lack of air, and pressed her face against his neck to breathe him in. His palms were still moving, from her knees all the way up her sides and back down. Almost wondrous in their gentle touches, and making her shiver, to boot. Cullen murmured into the top of her head, “I…wasn’t this a bad idea?”

“Yep,” she murmured into his neck, and even the twitch of her lips on his skin had him breathing hard, gripping her thighs more tightly. Maker, he smelled like cedar-sweat and something vaguely floral, musky and bittersweet. “It’s distracting, though.”

“From what?” he asked, his fingers brushing a curl from the nape of her neck, and that little gossamer touch sent a jolt through to her toes, made her shudder and nuzzle against him.

Mireille sighed and pulled back, just for a moment, swiping her hair back from her face. He was looking back up at her with awe, with heavy eyelids and pupils wide with lust, and one hand reached up to tangle in the mess of her updo so she could drop hers to his chest. “From…everything. From all of it.” She rolled her hips against his, across the growing arousal there, and watched him start and suck in a quick breath. Her fingers stroked down the half-open neck of his shirt, along the line of his collarbone. “I just – I want to forget, for just a minute, that I – that _we –_ ”

“Come here,” he said, his voice full of – of something, some cracked and broken tenderness that threatened to shatter her right there, and then he was kissing her again and it was all gone in the warmth, the solidity of his body under hers. He was sweet and burning and urgent against her and it was – it was all that mattered, just for now.

So Mireille ran her fingers down his chest to the next button and worked it open. Bit down on his lip until he groaned and bit back, his hands tight on her hips and shifting down. His thumbs stroked along her inner thighs until she shuddered and he swallowed the moan out of her mouth, running both hands up and down, farther in – and dammit, her tits were in the _way_ of removing his shirt, it was impossible to work a damn button with these things pushed up to her chin.

She had to sit up then, and look at her handiwork: Cullen flushed and panting, his mouth smudged red from the lipstick she’d forgotten to remove, his eyes nearly black and half-lidded with desire. He groaned softly and stroked a hand up her thigh again. “Maker have mercy.”

“For what?” she asked, still fumbling at buttons, laying his chest bare two inches at a time. Finally, the last button, and she pulled the fabric away. “Seems an odd thing to say during – oh. Nevermind, I can see why.” 

Cullen was most definitely smirking now, and she leaned forward to kiss it off his face, running her fingers over the broad muscle of his pectorals, over the ripples of old scars and newer ones and through the fine soft hair curling over his sternum and trailing dark down his belly. He shivered with every pass of her fingers on the heat of his skin. When she brushed over his bared hips he gasped into her lips, his hands clenching on her thighs for a moment before reaching up to fumble at her belted waist.

She kept – missing moments, drifting away in the shivering warmth of long-awaited touch. It seemed to take only an instant to discard her belt, her sash, her shirt, but the long pause he took to stare reverently at her breasts above the corset was crystalline, until she laughed and then she was lost again in the sudden heat of his mouth on her neck, dragging down the line of her breasts, biting and sucking while he worked at the laces behind her. From far away she heard herself bite off a moan, stroked her hands through his hair to ground herself.

It did seem like he’d been working the laces for a while, though. Mireille snorted and he growled into her cleavage, “Who _tied_ this?”

“Cassandra, I think.” She tugged his head back and lost another moment kissing him, pulling at his lower lip until he groaned. And then reached back herself and yanked the knot open in one tug, grinning down at him.

Cullen gave her an unimpressed look and helped her pull the corset off, over her head, scattering hairpins and nearly trapping her in the damn thing until it came off and almost took her shift with it. The linen bunched up around her ribs, a shoulder strap dangling, and he left it where it was, pulling at the laces of her breeches and swearing quietly.

She batted his hand away and took over, unlacing first hers and then his. Stroking over the hard bulge under his laces until he bucked and gasped and pulled her down on top of him, hips jerking against her. And for good measure she nipped at his neck, first lightly, then harder, until she found his collarbone and left a mark there. Then another, then another, and with every new press of her lips he twitched and gasped out a quick breath, a half-choked moan.

And then she was moving, his hands under her ass as he shifted and stood with her legs locked around his waist, and she murmured in his ear, “Don’t drop me this time, Rutherford.”

“Shush, or I’m going to throw you.” He was shaky on his feet, and bit down on her lip until she squeaked and wrapped her arms more tightly around his neck.

“I’m just saying,” she continued, between near-bruising kisses, “you have a history of – _fuck!”_ The world spun for a long moment. She landed at last on the softness of a bed, and Cullen was _on_ her, he’d managed to kick off his boots rather quickly and now his knee was pressed against the side of her hip, his fingers working her breeches off. Mireille blinked up into his face, and finished hazily, _“Maker.”_

“I did tell you I’d throw you,” he said, peeling the cotton-lined leather off her legs and taking her smalls with it, leaving her in just the shift and the garter belt holding her socks up. “You – how are you wearing full stockings? Maker’s fucking _breath,_ that’s – hmm _.”_

“I like having warm toes, what’s wrong with that?” She sat up on her elbow to meet his mouth, and oh, Maker, he was trailing his hand up her leg _deliberately_ slowly, from sock-covered knee to the line of bare skin between sock and garter belt, along her naked hip, avoiding the purpling bruise at the edge of her thigh, and she pulled his face closer to sink her teeth into him and cover the desperate little sounds she was making low in her throat.

He smirked into her mouth. Very serious despite the fact that his fingers were making little circles along her hip and her breath was hitching in time with each touch, he replied, “You’re in northern Orlais, where it’s warm even in Harvestmere. I cannot believe your toes are cold.”

“You’re right! I wore them just to seduce you in,” she said as sarcastically as she could muster, with his fingers trailing across her skin and leaving tingling heat in their wake. “This is basically lingerie for Fereldans, right? Inch-thick wool socks? Darned about two hundred times to make them last longer, holes in the toe?”

“I’d protest, but you’re actually right. That _is_ Fereldan lingerie.” He kissed her again, his fingers dipping lower, brushing the edge of the thatch of curls between her thighs. Mireille shivered. Every touch felt electric, white-hot and desperate. “We just don’t put them on until Wintermarch or so, when it’s actually cold.”

She paused, frowning against his lips, and said, “Wintermarch? Verimensis, you Fereldan barbarian.” And then he slipped his fingers down and found her clit, and her complaint disappeared into a strangled moan.

Oh, Maker. She hadn’t expected him to be _good_ at that.

Cullen kissed her again, then moved to her neck, to her collarbone, shifting so his weight pressed against her side as he worked her clit in small slow circles. She bit down hard on her lip to keep from crying out – old Circle habits did die hard, and being utterly quiet during sex was one of them – and panted, back arching against the solid press of his hand to her pelvis. High, bright little shivers shook her hips and oh, Maker, she needed _more_ than this, she needed –

“Verimensis, really?” he murmured against her chest, and pulled the shift down, sucked one nipple into his mouth. “Scholar.”

“You – fucking _tease_ ,” she managed between shallow breaths. When he brought teeth into it she nearly yelped. And his fingers moved faster, little by little, dipping down between her folds to wet them and make things easier – oh, Maker, that soft keening was her _own_ voice, wasn’t it? – his mouth was hot and wet on her breast, kissing and sucking, and she continued, eloquently, “Fuck.”

“It is surprisingly easy to put you at a loss for words,” he said smugly into her breast, biting down on the soft flesh until she squirmed.

Maker damn her stupid pride, she could _not_ let that smug little grin stand. Mireille gripped his wrist and pulled his fingers away with an effort, caught him by surprise, and before he could move she’d pinned his arm above his head and swung her leg over him. She ducked her head and kissed right behind his jawbone, pulled at his earlobe with her teeth until he groaned, and sat up again to gaze down at him. “What did the pot say to the kettle, again?”

Cullen was still a lot stronger than she was. He tugged his wrist out of her grip, sitting up, his hands coming down to grip her bare ass. “I don’t believe that counts.”

“Well, hold still and I’ll make it count,” she said, and pushed him back down so she could pull his breeches off. And take his smalls with them, peeling them off his muscular thighs, making his cock spring back and thump against his belly as she freed it.

He sat up – still wearing his shirt open around his bare chest, flushed to the sternum so that the silvered scars stood out bright and pale, the beautiful hard length of him poking himself in the stomach as he sat forward, his balls nestled underneath and nearly bumping against those strong pale thighs – and she took a moment to look at him before she pushed him down again, running a hand down the center of his chest and around and _up_ to stroke his balls. “You’re awfully bad at holding still.”

“I could say the same about – _ohh,”_ he added, as she ducked her head and ran her tongue up his cock from base to tip. “Oh, _Maker,_ Mireille…” She did it again, tugging the foreskin down to expose the sensitive head and licking across his frenulum, and his thighs flexed under her palms.

When she swirled her tongue around the head he bit his lip and groaned, quiet and deep in his chest, more vibration than audible sound. He gazed down at her through slitted eyes and opened his mouth, and whatever he’d been about to say disappeared in a soft clear moan as she wrapped her lips around him and, in one smooth motion, took him entirely into her mouth.

Mireille breathed, relaxed her throat, suppressed the gag reflex – it’d been a long damn time since she’d tried this, after all, and he wasn’t exactly small – and watched Cullen come undone.

He’d shifted himself up onto a pillow so he could watch her move through slitted eyes, his hair officially disheveled beyond repair, the flush spreading nearly to his ribs. Rolling his balls between her fingers, pushing them up, made his eyelids flutter; running her hands hard along his thighs made him shiver and gasp; trailing a finger down behind his balls made his eyes close entirely and his hips jerk, and she made note of it in case she got to do this again. He was doing his best to stay quiet and not really succeeding. Every time she rose to the tip and licked him there his breathing sped up, and every time she sank back down over him he moaned, soft and sweet and desperate. His hips began to jerk as she moved faster, and when she slowed he made a disappointed sound and tangled his hand in her hair, half out of its pins by now.

Faster, faster – Cullen gasped, and whispered something that sounded rather like the Chant – and then she pulled entirely away, trailing her fingers up his shaft until he twitched, and said with a smirk, “You tease me, I’m going to tease you.”

He opened his eyes fully, finally, wild and gold in the faint light, and then surged forward – nearly knocking her off the damn bed – his mouth on hers, his wet cock pressed against her pelvis, replaced by his fingers diving through the slick curls, the other hand still somewhere in her hair holding her down under his body, and her clever response to this sudden ardor was lost as he slipped a finger inside her. Oh, _Maker,_ that was – that was what she’d _needed,_ that fullness she’d been missing for so long – Mireille reached down to grip him, pumping him against her stomach, and finally managed to murmur into his jaw, “I should have started teasing you ages ago.”

“You have been,” he grumbled. And fastened his teeth in her neck, sucked for a moment, before returning to her mouth. “Maker, I’ve – I’ve wanted this too long.”

“Thought about me, did you?” She grinned up into his face and he slipped another finger inside her, making her breath catch and her teeth grind, the needy heat between her thighs building high and hot. “That’s – _ahh –_ that’s flattering, thank you. Didn’t know you liked freckles that much.”

“I do, and you are _amazingly_ talkative for someone actively having sex.” His teeth clicked against hers. Each kiss was more desperate now, as she worked his cock between their bodies, as he crooked his fingers and chased the ensuing moan deeper into her mouth. “I don’t think – _fuck –_ I don’t think I could render you entirely speechless if I wanted to.”

“What does that mean?” She barely managed the words, barely breathing, as his fingers moved faster, and then withdrew altogether and left her keening, needing _more –_

“It means I very much enjoy hearing you moan,” Cullen rumbled, and the head of his cock nudged up between her legs for one brief moment before he rolled his hips and pushed inside her.

Oh.

The world slowed, narrowed, until it was just – his warm brown eyes wide and amazed, the sweet whiskey breaths in the air between them – the heat, the stretch, as his cock sank slowly deeper, the low groan in his throat, her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. He shifted his hips and Mireille felt the quiet moan bubble up from her chest. The scar through his lip twitched, and he smiled, soft and bright.

She had nothing. No clever words to deflect this into something less intimate, less serious. Nothing but the feel of him, every twitch of his hips shooting bright white pleasure through her, nothing but pulling his face down to hers again to kiss him, sloppy with shaking need..

Cullen hooked an arm under her leg, pressing deeper – making her gasp – and eased back out. He was _trembling._ His hand splayed over the bare slice of thigh to hold her steady, and Maker, she couldn’t _think,_ not with – not with his cock this deep, this hard and solid inside her –

She heard herself murmur, _“Maker,_ Cullen. Please.”

Slowly, his eyes fixed on hers, full of wonder, full of want, and he began to thrust into her.

Oh, Maker, it’d been too long. She was going to fall apart and didn’t _care,_ digging her fingers into the tight muscle of his forearms, as he began to speed up – every thrust felt deeper, harder, drawing a strangled moan out of her throat each and every time that she was utterly failing to stifle – he was panting now, soft half-voiced sounds falling from his mouth, murmuring _her name_ over and over – thrusting harder and _deeper_ with her leg hooked over his shoulder, his other hand like iron on her hip, giving him purchase, slipping _down_ to brush his thumb over her clit, and – oh fucking _Maker –_ he dipped his head and kissed her before the sharp high noise she made could fully escape her throat –

Maker and Andraste and every fucking saint, she couldn’t – between the bright white jolt of his finger on her clit, the hot heavy fullness of his thrusting _cock,_ she _couldn’t,_ she would –

Finally, finally, something snapped, the long-awaited build of pleasure crashing over the edge and leaving her shivering in the wake of orgasm, her loins clenching hard around him, tears on her cheeks. His fingers slowed on her suddenly too-sensitive clit, as the world faded at the edges, and yet somehow he still wasn’t _done,_ and each hard shuddering thrust hit just right, her moans gone deep and throaty, no longer high and gasping, as she rode the wave back up just a little further –

He bent forward, his forehead pressed against her own, his hips still jerking as he pounded into her, and now she could hear his breathless whisper: “Maker, please, Mireille, yes – please, _yes…_ I’m – I’m so – _please.”_

“Come on,” she murmured, running her hands down his sides, up again, tangling in his sweaty hair. Turning his head to kiss his neck, up and down over the bruises she’d already left. Her voice was low and rough now, and getting higher as he sped up, faster – faster – “Come on, Cullen, please, please – come for me, come on – it’s okay – ”

 _“Mireille,”_ he choked out, and slipped out of her, and she brought her hand down to pump him – just once – before he came hot and wet against her stomach with a shuddering gasp.

His head dropped to knock against hers, and she stroked him slowly between their bellies, listening to his ragged breathing.

Cullen shuddered again and lifted his head, just enough to press a wet kiss against her forehead, her nose, her mouth, and she huffed a laugh into his cheek. His nose bumped against hers. “Sorry about…about that,” he murmured. “I’ve made a mess of you.” 

“Mm. You have.” She couldn’t stop touching his hair. Running her hand from the top of his skull down his neck and back, just to feel the curls slide between her fingers. “It’s…mm. It’s good.”

He kissed her again and said, “Hold on,” and then slipped away. Mireille considered for a moment getting up and decided against it. A soft fuzz of exhaustion was spreading out from her thighs, making her limbs loose and heavy.

Dimly she felt him return, dab at the wetness on her stomach with something, and she gazed up at him through the flimsy white haze of pleasure. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He glanced down and gave her a lazy smile. “I…thank you.”

“Mmph. Thank _you.”_ One of her hands found his knee, rubbing circles in the hot skin. “I…hmm. I am…amazingly sleepy.”

“Sleep, then. You’ve more than earned it.” Her eyes had closed at some point, when had that happened? He kissed her forehead again. She felt the bed shift as if someone had knelt on it, felt a blanket settle lightly around her shoulders. Felt herself begin to drift.

“Sleep, Mireille.” The weight of his hand on her shoulder woke her just enough.

“C’mere,” she mumbled, reaching out. “Just…just for a minute.”

“I’m here.” The mattress dipped again as he clambered in beside her. Had he planned to leave? Did it matter now? He’d stayed, sweat-slick and still breathing hard, and now his chin was pillowed on her head and his elbow was in her ribs. Well, not everything could be perfect.

Maybe she’d regret this in the morning, but for now…for now all she wanted was the warmth of him, to draw out the heady euphoria of being held for just a little longer. So she tucked herself into the quiet circle of his arms and sighed, and let the exertion and the whiskey and the comfort of his touch pull her down into sleep.

 

* * *

 

This time – when Mireille woke struggling from the depths of the inevitable nightmare, jerking in fear again, the same old routine – there was another warm body still with her, solid and real and new. She was pulled against hot skin, her head pillowed on the rise and fall of his chest, feeling more than hearing the reassurances rumbling through his ribcage. It was necessary. It was confirmation that she wasn’t alone, that she was alive, that she was safe, at least for now.

“Thank you,” she said, sighing across his chest.

“Of course,” he replied, and she was too tired, too warm, to argue with the tenderness in those words.

She fell asleep with her fingers curling along his collarbone, and this time managed to dream of nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Cullen woke, as always, with a start.

This time he wasn’t in a camp like he’d been for weeks now, with the soft bustle of scouts and soldiers moving, the constant faint noise that drowned out his thoughts. It was – quiet. Soothingly warm, almost too warm. Before he could think he shifted, stretching his legs out from under the blanket, and nuzzled into the pillow in his arms. And got a faceful of hair. Wait…

Then the headache hit. Ohh, _Maker,_ and with it memory rushed back.

Maybe he should quit drinking whiskey. Or drinking, period.

Somehow he’d expected Mireille to be gone. She was so sharp, so closed-off sometimes, that it was hard to imagine her a cuddler. But she was still here, her small warm body fitted right against his like it belonged there. His fingers were entwined with hers and his half-hard cock pressed up against the full curve of her ass, and he stroked his free hand down her hip before he could wake fully and stop himself. There was more muscle than he’d have expected under the soft skin. Pressing his forehead against the top of her skull dulled the ache a little, and she smelled so nice, clean and floral and a little spicy…

For a moment he let himself wonder what would happen if he stayed. Just a little longer, until morning came in full. The last handful of hours were fuzzy, full of half-remembered sounds and sensations, but her soft broken voice when she’d asked him to stay was burned into his brain.

He hadn’t known she could sound so small.

There was a faint grey light through the window though, a bird singing insistently just outside – scolding him that if someone decided to rise early and check in with the Inquisitor she’d likely not appreciate his presence, especially naked and hungover as she was – and so, carefully, he extracted himself. When he’d finally stood she flopped over onto her back with a sigh, still evidently asleep, and evidently unaware of the minor heart attack she’d just given him.

He paused, just a moment, to look back at her. The sheets were tangled around her body, her now-stained shift riding up to expose a roll of freckled stomach. Her face wasn’t quite calm even in sleep, the faint lines under her eyes and between her brows cut sharply by the approaching dawn, her dark hair a tangled, silver-streaked halo. The long line of one stockinged foot poked out of the blanket, exposed up to the hip – and Maker, that fucking garter belt, those long socks hugging her thick thighs – he shook his head sharply and had to bite back a groan as his skull throbbed. No, he did _not_ need to be thinking about that right now, he was dizzy enough. Best to keep all his blood where it belonged.

Quietly, he gathered his discarded clothes, sliding them back on. Still sticky with sweat and his own seed. If he needed proof that last night had actually happened, well, that would be it, not to mention the nearly nude Inquisitor in the bed.  

Mireille shifted again, her left hand coming down to her stomach. Hiking up the shift around her ribs, scratching under one breast, and then falling to the side and illuminating the room in soft green.

Cullen stopped again. Between the light of approaching dawn and the Anchor, a long scar at the top of her belly stood out clearly, slightly raised. Right below her ribcage.

Maker have mercy. He’d kind of hoped she’d been exaggerating about that.

He buttoned his shirt again, and padded over to the bed, resisting the terrible urge to climb back in and nuzzle up against her. From this side he could see the fat rippled scar in the pit of her shoulder, from the arrow she’d taken at Haven. There was a half-healed cut above her elbow that looked fresh, bruises on her forearms and her hip. A fine red slice over the bridge of her nose, an old slash wound along her jaw still pink at the edges. That five-inch white line under her ribs where someone had – had seen a threat and tried to remove it, tried to put her down. Like a rabid dog. Even that didn’t do it justice, because Mireille Trevelyan was no blood mage, not even a rebel at that point. No damn _threat._

Except…once, not even that long ago, he would have thought she was. She was brave and authoritative and intelligent, someone you wanted to follow because she knew who she was and what she was doing, or maybe because she hid her insecurity so well. How easy it would be for a Templar to see a threat in a mage with that sort of confidence…Oh, sure, he’d probably have stopped short of sticking a sword in her, as if that made him the better man, but – maybe it was a good thing that he’d never met her in Kirkwall. She deserved better than the ill-informed judgment of Knight-Captain Cullen. Probably better than the worn-down Commander of the Inquisition, too, but…

Mireille shifted again, hummed softly as she turned her head, and he very nearly reached out to stroke her cheek. And hesitated, four inches away, but – no, she knew what kind of man he was, perhaps better than he did. There were no illusions here. Even drunk and worried and exhausted there was no give to her, no compromises for what he’d been or what he’d done, no mercy that wasn’t somehow earned, which was an odd thought.

He’d never really thought of himself as someone who deserved mercy. Least of all from a mage. That she’d trusted him enough to ask him to stay, to take him into her confidence (and – _Maker –_ into her _mouth)_ , to let him fuck her until she came apart in his hands and then to ask him to stay even after she’d taken her pleasure, if only for a little while – well. Worrying at it wouldn’t make it easier to understand.

Somehow he’d done something right, to earn that much trust from her. Even if it was only for one night. That would be enough.

Cullen sighed, and leaned over, to kiss her forehead in…apology, maybe, for slipping away. In misplaced tenderness, very possibly. Or maybe just because being able to kiss her was damnably satisfying. And maybe she’d think it all just a pleasant dream, because if he’d been drunk (and he had been, on whiskey, on wine from the ballroom, on sleep and the way her lip curled when she spoke) she’d been even drunker, trying to cope with it all. Maybe there’d be no consequences for this, and it would stay here between the sheets, in this room that smelled of whiskey and sex and the light jasmine scent of her hair.

Probably not. But he could hope.

Cullen picked up his boots and left the room in bare feet, shutting the door without a sound. And tiptoed away to find some water and make himself comfortable on the couch again. Four damn beds in this suite for eight people, and if Leliana and Josephine thought he’d be willing to imply that he and the Inquisitor were – were – well, doing what they’d just _done,_ what he sincerely wanted to do again – regardless. They could stuff it. He’d sleep on the damn couch. He’d…well, he’d sleep at least a little on the damn couch, and her reputation could stay intact.

Oh, Maker and Andraste, please have mercy. At least on her. She needed it more than anyone, if she was turning to _him_ for comfort.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that only took two months to finish! sorry for the wait, y'all. between depression, executive dysfunction, too much travel, and assorted Life Shit (TM), it's been pretty delayed, but it is finally done and i can move on from halamshiral at LAST. thanks for your patience and for stickin' around -- i am quite determined to finish this fic, even if it takes me a while. 
> 
> while i can't promise rapid-fire updates, i'm eyeing about a month til the next chapter, and hopefully that will be a generous estimation! and hopefully this HUGE ass chapter will tide yall over for a bit haha. in the meantime, i do have a [tumblr](http://sirinial.tumblr.com) my assorted doodles and wips (and uh mostly for reblogging cute adventuring outfits and illustrations).
> 
> EDIT 3/26: okay maybe a month was not a good estimation for the next chapter haha. i promise i'm still working on this!! i've made some edits to this chapter, to clear up some continuity errors and such (mostly because i don't know how to count). i'm also most of the way through the next chapter, so hopefully i'll have another massive update for yall really soon. :3


	24. Chapter 24

Mireille hefted the staff in her right hand, twirling it between her fingers, and redoubled her grip on the leather-wrapped hilt of her sword. At the other end of the clearing Vivienne stood, impassive and glowing as always, with a basket-caged silver hilt in her own hand.

She whipped it upward, a line of blue-white flashing in the faded yellow light of afternoon, and said, “Ready, Senior Enchanter?”

“Ready, First Enchanter,” Mireille said, tapping the end of her staff on the damp ground. She widened the set of her feet, her thighs protesting the continued strain, as Vivienne dropped into her straight-backed fencer’s crouch.

For a moment the only sound was the murmurs of camp in the near distance, the gentle ruffle of early winter breeze in the bushes, and then Vivienne skipped forward tidily and the line of her sword sprang upward.

Mireille blocked the blow with a flick of her own sword – she’d learned after the first bruised shoulder to _watch_ the hilt and the hand that held it, because the blade might not pop into being until it was nearly inside you – and swiped forward, once twice, pressing the attack forward so her silver-green blade buzzed and clashed against Vivienne’s blue-white one. Swipe, _block_ as the narrow blue line thrust at her shoulder, swing up with the staff, and then that was blocked too as Vivienne twirled backward with a flutter of white silk and around to the left to tag her, just outside the line of her sword, on the back of her left shoulder.

“Avoid pressing too hard,” Vivienne said, settling back into her crouch. “You overextend when you do.”

Mireille settled back into her stance and nodded, briskly, and then blocked again as the spirit rapier came darting toward her neck.

The next thrust came for her hip and she blocked that too, sliding her blade across Vivienne’s with a nerve-tingling buzz of magic. She nearly got the hilts locked together before Vivienne stepped back smartly and withdrew. Mireille prowled after her, her steps smaller and lower than the tall woman’s. Step, step, call up the blade _just_ when it’s needed and no earlier, bat away the fine blue streak of the rapier and _thrust_ to tap Vivienne along the outside of one thigh.

“Good.”

She pulled back to circle, waiting for an opening. Sparring with Vivienne was a little like sparring with a glacier that could hit back. You had to – the swords clashed with a _ffzzt_ and Mireille drove in and upward, throwing a lightning spell through her staff that Vivienne deflected with a tidy wave of her hand, and her blade tapped the First Enchanter right in the ribs as the rapier slapped lightly against her hip – you had to watch her _carefully,_ her motions fluid and tightly controlled, with barely any change in her upright posture.

Mireille blinked the sweat out of her eyes and, as Vivienne stepped, she lunged.

The rapier scraped off her sword, tilted upward to catch the incoming strike, and she brought the staff in her other hand forward quick and sharp to prod Vivienne in the shoulder and tilt her back just enough. Vivienne swept the rapier around and _over_ and Mireille caught that one too, pressing forward, shot her staff between the First Enchanter’s legs and jammed the blade into the soft ground to anchor it.

It almost worked, but Vivienne just leaned _forward_ with barely a stumble, and before Mireille could get her sword higher than waist level the rapier was buzzing at her throat.

“An interesting technique,” Vivienne said, lowering her sword.

Mireille pulled her staff out of the mud. “It didn’t work particularly well.”

“If perhaps you combined it with a forward thrust…” Vivienne held up a hand, as Mireille tried to ignore the ache in her muscles and settle back into a fighting stance. “No, I do think we’ve had quite enough for the moment. At the very least you should take a break, my dear, we’ve been at this hours.”

“I’m fine.”

Her stomach chose that moment to growl. Vivienne arched an eyebrow.

Mireille sighed. “All right, maybe you’re right.”

Vivienne gave her a small smile and strode across the clearing to retrieve the waterskin from where it hung on a broken branch.

For a moment, just a moment, Mireille let herself lean heavily on her staff and rubbed at her shoulder, tucking the hilt back into her belt. The arrow wound had healed as cleanly as it ever would, but the scar was still tender. And prone to aching during, say, periods of long exertion.

When Vivienne turned around again Mireille straightened instantly, and brushed off her shoulder as if she’d been doing that all along.

The waterskin was pressed into her hands and Vivienne said, as she drank, “Your dedication is admirable, my dear. I am quite pleased with your progress.”

“Yes, well, maybe someday you’ll stop going easy on me.” She hadn’t meant it to sound quite as grouchy, she’d been going for darkly amused, but her growling stomach twisted it a little.

“I certainly shall when you’re ready.” Vivienne, at least, seemed unperturbed. “It takes years of training to make a Knight-Enchanter, my dear. The fact that you have made progress at all in a few months is impressive. Would that I’d known your aptitude before, I might have requested they send you into training.” There was a faint undercurrent of _this is your praise, take it while it’s here_ in her tone.

Mireille swept her thumb over her staff, rubbing at a dent in the wood with her nail. “Thank you.” She handed the skin back and opened her mouth, closed it carefully, trying to line up her words before she said them. “Vivienne…What does a Knight-Enchanter _do?_ I’d barely even heard of the discipline, and I’m…I’m surprised they’d allow mages to be trained this way.”

Something flickered in Vivienne’s impassive face, some wry little twist to her lip that was gone as soon as it appeared, and she tucked her hands behind her back. “The Chantry finds it useful to train some mages, and it is a very select few, in such arts. A Knight-Enchanter is an army unto herself.  Many have fought in Exalted Marches as well as more…local conflicts. We are carefully vetted, chosen for our loyalty to the Circles as well as our aptitude for battle magic. Training begins just after Harrowing, in isolation from our fellow mages, for the most part. Some of my own training took place with Helaine, and there are at least six other Knight-Enchanters about, or at least there were before the rebellion began. I would be unsurprised if some have been called to such conflicts.”

Mireille let out a long breath, pouring it into the chilly breeze, and shook her head. “I…suppose I would have expected more Templars protesting, breathing down my neck. Or at least more insistence from the Chantry.”

“You are rather a special case.” Vivienne gave her a more genuine smile this time. “However, the Templar Order is in little shape to complain, and the Chantry has raised very little fuss. Magic is _useful,_ my dear.” There was that wry little twist again, a flash of dark amusement she’d have missed had she not been looking directly at the First Enchanter. “Very, very useful, especially when directed. The reputation of the Knight-Enchanters precedes you – they are a respected order in the Chantry, although they are generally partnered with a Templar in combat. I suspect having a Templar so high in the ranks of the Inquisition has helped quell any fears, along with your status as Herald.”

“Ah.” It came out flat and sour, more so than she’d intended. But really, what had she expected? A way to be truly autonomous in the Circle? One would think she’d know better by now.

“You cannot be surprised,” Vivienne said softly. “Ostwick was never much different from other Circles. Certainly less militant than Kirkwall, but even a Senior Enchanter must have been under scrutiny at all times.”

Mireille paused a moment, rolling her staff between her palms, feeling the First Enchanter’s dark gaze on her shoulders like a cloak. “I was. I didn’t…I didn’t mind it as much.”

Because, more fool her, she’d decided to fall for one of her overseers. Because she’d been friends with Brynn since they were both gangly teenagers, and they’d bent rules for each others’ sake. Because she’d never been really doubted, so she’d been able to learn that Marigold was always tired on duty because she didn’t sleep well, that Fitz needed something to fidget with or he had trouble focusing, that Kerin was a little nervous because her sister had lit her hair on fire when she was only eight…

Well, and then she’d ended up accused of sympathizing and stuck to her own carpet, so that was the end of that particular line of thought. She folded her arms tight across her belly with the staff tucked in the crook of her elbow and met Vivienne’s patient gaze. “Things have changed.”

Vivienne’s face didn’t change at all, and if it weren’t for the slow blink and the flutter of wind through the tails of her surcoat she could almost have been a statue silhouetted against the oddly vivid sky. The sun was just beginning to set behind the clouds, and they were a strange blend of faded purples and dusty yellows, casting an odd directionless half-light over everything that made the clearing look just a little too flat. Mireille rubbed her wrist against the scar on her belly and added, into the suddenly still air, “I suppose it could be worse.”

“It certainly could,” Vivienne said. “Consider, my dear – if they think you leashed, they think you tame, and they will be rather surprised when they find that is not the case.” She reached out and squeezed Mireille’s shoulder with one narrow hand. “Use this to your advantage. You, above us all, have power. You must use it well.”

Mireille sighed, and her stomach chose that moment to grumble even through her crossed arms. Vivienne smiled – genuinely, this time, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “And I suppose I’ve kept you long enough. We’ve both quite a few things to take care of before the morning, not least your appetite.”

“I suppose so.” Why was it so hard, some days, to break out of the old fear? Mireille rubbed her wrist against the scar, hidden under layers of cloth and corsetry, and said belatedly, “Thank you, First Enchanter.”

Vivienne gave her a small smile, a little sad around the edges, and squeezed her shoulder again before she turned to leave. The silver hilt gleamed buttery gold as she moved through the trees, catching a shaft of light Mireille couldn’t see from here.

For a long moment Mireille stood there, chewing on her lip and trying to puzzle out the vague sense of unease trickling down her spine. Admittedly, she’d been rather carefully avoiding the subject of a certain Templar high in the Inquisition’s ranks for several days. And admittedly, she’d been on edge ever since Halamshiral, but she was usually on edge before a mission anyway.

Admittedly, she hadn’t stopped feeling uneasy since before she’d gone to Jainen, but…

She stood there until the breeze cooled the sweat on her neck and in the crook of her elbows, carrying the smell of cooking meat and burning hickory along with it. Every so often she’d get lost in the memory of blood and broken stone now, picking the scab off a nearly-healed wound, ensuring it’d scar. Possibly not the healthiest way to deal with it, but progress was progress, after all. And at least next time she wouldn’t look away.

Because the worst part – the _worst_ part – was that she had never even paid attention to this sort of thing in Ostwick. She’d been busy teaching, and researching, and she’d taken a few excursions to nearby towns to act as a healer during particularly sickly winters, and when occasionally a student would go missing or be reassigned to the Formari…well. That was just business as usual in the Circles, wasn’t it? Maker, and she’d let it go, looked away from the blood on the walls –

Mireille shook herself hard, dislodging a few sweaty curls from the back of her neck, and retrieved her belt and pouches from the stump she’d left them on. Her overcoat she draped over an arm as she began the short journey back down to camp, through the woods oddly free of shadow.

The nice thing about camp was there was always something small to do, something to keep your hands and eyes and mind just busy enough to stave off sleep and worry – mending a shirt or a bridle, gathering whatever herbs might be around for potions or for the stewpot, replenishing potions or tending minor wounds. You had to be useful in camp. Even if, with the addition of Cullen’s six hand-picked soldiers and four scouts to their usual four-man party, there were plenty of hands to deal with minor matters like that. Even if she could swear they were taking all her favorite jobs on purpose…

Belatedly Mireille realized she was grumbling under her breath and bit carefully down on the inside of her cheek, only to find she’d already chewed it raw. All right, maybe she ought to eat something before she did anything else.

She strode past the picket for the horses, past where Scout Revan was stitching together a saddlebag, past the cleared area where she’d seen Cassandra and Cullen sparring in shirtsleeves earlier and had had to hurry away _very quickly_ before either of them saw her blush _,_ and nearly ran into Dorian.

“Good evening to you, too, cousin,” he said cheerily, folding up the cloth in his hands. “Dinner is not ready yet, before you ask.”

Mireille nearly growled at him and settled for saying, “How do you know that?”

“Because I just checked, and you are _always_ hungry after training.” He gave her a sunny grin. “Our cook for the evening counsels patience. And requests herbs, so I’m rather glad I ran into you.”

“Yes, because your ability to identify herbs starts and stops at elfroot.” She sighed, tapping her belt. “Why are you calling me cousin?”

“Oh, yes, I checked the genealogies. I believe you and I are fourth cousins twice removed, or some such.” Dorian stroked his mustache in thought. “Or possibly second cousins four times removed? Regardless. Herbs. I’m told rosemary, sage, and thyme, although why one might need the time is beyond my ken. Also, salt, but I suppose that isn’t an herb.”

Mireille raised one eyebrow. Dorian didn’t appear to notice. “Excellent, then I will delegate the finding of it all to you, because I really must see about fixing this shirt.”

She raised the other eyebrow and said, in utterly false shock, “Oh, dear, is it missing a sleeve?”

“Very funny.” He flapped the shirt at her. “Off with you! Herbs!”

She rolled her eyes at him and trotted away. Herbs.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, muddy to the knees with a sprig of rosemary in her mouth and several fistfuls of mixed herbs, Mireille tromped into the circle of firelight and announced, “This had better be worth it.”

Varric looked up from the ledger he’d been staring at. “Are you just…eating herbs?”

“Yes.” She sat down, her eyes fixed on the bubbling stewpot over the fire, and reached for it.

“I’ve been told to stop you if you try to eat it,” he warned, setting the book aside. “Sorry, Freckles.”

Mireille flopped back onto the ground and groaned. Possibly for dramatic effect. “You know, you people are supposed to _feed_ your Inquisitor. What good is this title if I don’t get to eat?”

“Don’t you usually have snacks?”

“I am regrettably out of snacks.” She folded her hands over her growling stomach, pillowing the herbs on her chest like a funereal bouquet. “I’ll just waste away here, don’t mind me. Tell Josephine I died of starvation.”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra’s voice said, “I think you are making a mountain from a molehill.”

Mireille decided not to open her eyes. “Seeker, I think I’m bloody hungry and whoever is cooking is taking their sweet time about it.”

She heard Varric snort a laugh. Cassandra continued, “I understand it takes some time to cook a Satinalia dish, Inquisitor.”

“Well, it’s not Satinalia, Seeker, unless I’ve completely lost track of the days at this point.”

“It was three days ago,” Varric said helpfully, and Mireille wrinkled her nose at him. Or, well, at the sky, but it was definitely directed at him. “But we were in a torrential downpour and didn’t notice.”

“People cook for Satinalia?”

The herbs were tugged gently out of her hands. Cassandra said above her, “Yes, Inquisitor, people often cook for Satinalia. And fast, and celebrate, in a variety of ways. Did you not as a child?”

Mireille wiggled her now-empty fingers, set off a few small sparks. “Not really. They gave us spice cake on Wintersend in the Circle, and that was about it. And now I’m talking about cake, which is not making me less hungry.” Someone had started to rip the herbs apart, because the smell of rosemary and thyme was now wafting toward her, and her stomach complained again.

“Hmm. In Nevarra the holiday is celebrated quite extensively. Three days of feasting and prayer, watching the moonrise. It’s a rather romantic holiday.”

“I could go for three days of feasting right about now. You know, when I cook, it doesn’t take as long.”

There were several responses at once to this statement, largely statements of protest. Possibly one of the soldiers passing by had joined in. Possibly several. Mireille scoffed, eyes still closed. “Just because _you_ didn’t like it…”

“You _cannot cook,”_ Cassandra and Varric said simultaneously, and Mireille opened one eye to watch Cassandra snap her head around to look across the fire at him and scowl. And blush. Just a little bit. The Seeker had seated herself on a rock next to Mireille, with a polishing cloth in one hand and her sword in the other, and shook herself back into dignity. “Inquisitor. You are supposed to cook potatoes until they are _soft.”_

“Not black and crunchy,” Varric added, and Mireille couldn’t actually see him from her position on the ground, so she settled for shutting her eyes again. “And definitely not topped with moldy cheese.”

“People eat moldy cheese. Willingly! We’re in Orlais, aren’t we?” Mireille finally gave in and sat up, raking her disheveled curls back off her face, and opened her eyes, and made direct eye contact with Cullen. Who appeared to be smothering a laugh in his glove, who was sitting right in front of the bubbling stewpot, whose cheeks were beginning to turn quite pink.

Well, shit.

She’d managed to avoid him for almost a week, after that one hungover meeting over a makeshift war table in the Winter Palace, in which Leliana and Josephine had been just tired enough from a night of gossip-gathering to not notice that their Inquisitor and Commander couldn’t even stand near each other without blushing. (Hopefully, anyway.) And camp did not necessitate speaking to each other, not when the weather had continued to be muddy and foggy and generally bad, slowing their progress toward the Shrine of Dumat and therefore putting off any discussion about strategy or approach or – any other topics that might warrant discussion.

And now she’d stared at him slightly too long and lost the thread of her conversation. And suddenly, inanely, she wished she’d considered wearing something other than the mudstained breeches and patched tunic she usually sparred in. Which was stupid! When had she decided she cared about that sort of thing?!

“When in Val Royeaux, and all,” she finished lamely, busying herself with pulling out hairpins and the leather tie that had held her hair in place. “Also, are you insinuating the Commander is somehow a better cook than I am?”

“I hate to break this to you, Freckles, but literally anyone is a better cook than you are,” Varric said. He was grinning. It was not a grin Mireille liked the look of. “Wyverns cook better than you do. Dragons. Possibly even wolves.”

She flicked a hairpin at him. “As if you can cook.”

“I don’t try,” he replied, settling back. “Besides, Curly offered. Something about a traditional Fereldan holiday dish. One that isn’t made from sheep, which is surprising in itself.”

“We don’t _only_ eat sheep.” Out of the corner of her eye she could see Cullen ripping herbs into the enormous stewpot as he spoke, and concentrated harder on working her fingers through a knot. “Occasionally a vegetable is involved.”

“And now he makes jokes, even more surprisingly.” Varric was still giving her that shit-eating grin. “What have you done to him?”

“Don’t look at me,” she said as nonchalantly as possible, scraping her hair back off her forehead again. “Perhaps you’re rubbing off on him.”

“Perhaps the jokes usually go over your head,” Cullen added, and she very carefully did not look in his direction at all.

“And short jokes, at that! Low, Curly. That’s low.” Varric was trying very hard to make eye contact across the fire and she ignored him entirely, sticking the hairpins in her mouth so she could twist her hair back up. She heard Cullen huff a nearly silent laugh at the pun, though.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Commander, what is the Fereldan custom for Satinalia? Orlais is very much similar to Nevarra, and I must say I’m curious.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing compared to the city.” The thunk of a spoon against metal, and then dirt scuffled as he shifted in her peripheral vision. “There was, ah, a statue in the square that the children named bann for the day. A communal feast in town. Children made masks, crowns…my sister liked to make them out of holly.”

“Holly has thorns,” Mireille said, in spite of herself, dropping a pin into her lap. “Did your sister know that?”

He glanced up and if her stomach decided to twist a little bit just as he smiled, a half-grin that tugged up the unscarred corner of his mouth – well – it was probably just due to hunger. “Oh, yes. I think that’s why she used it. She had us convinced it was traditional for _years._ ” 

“I like her already,” Varric said. “You know, the Inquisition could use a few more persuasive liars.”

Cullen pointed the spoon at him. “You will not be recruiting my sister, and if I hear of you attempting to do so, I will ensure _you_ get to dig latrines.”

“I second that,” Mireille said, when Varric turned to her in pleading. “Much as I like making fun of our commander, I like the thought of you digging latrines more.”

“You wound me, you two. My delicate writer’s hands just aren’t made for holding shovels.”

“They’re made for writing smutty literature,” Mireille said darkly, which made Cassandra blush a little bit.

He stood up and winked at her. “Exactly. Seeker, I don’t suppose you’d help me get the dishes?”

“I suppose,” Cassandra said – rather tartly – and sheathed her sword a little more loudly than necessary. “As I recall last time you tried to fetch dishes you attempted to climb on my horse and scared him into bolting, so perhaps I should assist this time.”

“Nonsense!” Varric winked _again._ Did he think she wasn’t getting the memo? Mireille scowled at him a little harder, as he led Cassandra away from the fire and their bickering faded into the background noise.

Oh, _Maker,_ he didn’t _know,_ did he?

She glanced to the side, found Cullen glancing at her sidelong, and said carefully, “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said softly, his attention back on the stewpot. At least in theory.

 _You’re acting like a lovesick child,_ she told herself sternly. _This is stupid. This is_ really _stupid._

“I…think I owe you an apology.”

Mireille blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“No, _I_ owe you _–_ ” He sat back, hands in his lap. He’d discarded the big furry mantle and a large portion of his armor to sit by the fire, and his hunched shoulders under the sleeveless gambeson appeared to be trying to make up for the loss in mass. “I…it seems like you might be, ah. Angry with me.”

She tilted her head, and Cullen finally met her eyes, switching from sheepish to exasperated with remarkable speed. “I can’t usually get you to _stop_ talking, Trevelyan, and you haven’t said a word to me in a week. It’s not an unreasonable concern. At least I don’t…I don’t think it is.”

Oh, she was still wearing her Varric scowl, _that_ was why he was giving her that look. Mireille held up her hands. “No, no, I’m – I’m _not._ I’m just hungry and my face kind of sticks that way.”

“Oh.” His face fell right back into sheepish, cheeks pink. “I’m…sorry.”

“Look, I…” She sat up a little further, pressing her fingers to her lips in thought and belatedly wishing she had her staff. “I’m not _mad,_ Maker, I – it was…” Amazing? A drunken indiscretion she never should have undertaken? A terrible mistake? “I mean, it was – I asked, and it was…we were both quite drunk, and it was a bit of a stressful night, wasn’t it, and…it happened, and there’s nothing to be mad about, and it won’t happen again, and there you go.”

“It certainly was stressful.” He was smiling now, albeit weakly. “I…I suppose I just…I was concerned. Even when you _didn’t_ like me you spoke to me. Nigh constantly, if I recall, although most of it was rather rude.”

“Who says I like you now?” she grumbled, and considered prodding him in the ankle with her foot, but it was a little too far away and a little too much of a confirmation. “You haven’t fed me yet.”

“Be patient.” Cullen stirred the pot again, sending up another waft of meat-and-onion-scented steam that made her stomach growl. “I…I’m glad you’re not. Angry, I mean.”

Mireille frowned at him. At the particular hunch of his shoulders and the way he was squinting a little bit. She watched his hands (the same narrow callused fingers that had slipped so _easily_ between her legs, the broad palms that had felt so heavy and hot on her sides, part of her thought, with rising interest) quiver as he tapped the spoon clean on the side. “Have you been – Rutherford, you’re supposed to _tell_ me if your symptoms get worse.”

He scowled right back. “I’m quite all right, thank you.” Now that she was looking for it, there was a hoarse note to his voice, carefully controlled.

She met his gaze steadily and her stomach growled _again._ Cullen coughed a laugh into his hand. “Shut up,” she told her stomach, “and you too, I’m not done being mad at you.”

“I’m sorry, I was told you _weren’t_ mad at me.”

“I’ve changed my mind. We’re going to talk about this after food,” she added, as the repetitive _clack_ of wooden bowls shifting in hands grew nearer. “I was going to make more healing potions anyway.”

“There you go, Curly,” Varric said, tromping into the clearing and holding out a bowl from the stack.

Making eye contact with her the entire time, Cullen poured out a measure of stew into the bowl and said, “We should feed the scouts first, yes?”

Mireille’s stomach made a noise she could almost imagine was _nooooo._

“Oh, definitely,” Varric said, passing by her, the bowl so close she was nearly drooling, and when she gave him the saddest look she could possibly muster he just laughed. “You’re not much good at the puppy eyes, are you, Freckles? I just feel like you’re going to bite my hand off, here you go.”

“I’m promoting you,” Mireille said through the first mouthful. “I don’t know what I’m promoting you to, but I’m promoting you. No latrines for _you._ ”

There was a bustle, as food was passed out to the entire camp, that lapsed into a very focused silence broken only by the soft click of wooden spoon on wooden bowl. And then by the tearing of bread to get the last drops. Dorian said at last, “If this is how Ferelden celebrates Satinalia, perhaps it’s not such a backwater after all. What a pleasant surprise.”

“A ringing endorsement,” Cullen said dryly, and Mireille huffed a laugh.

“It could be worse.” Varric gestured at the bowl with the crust of bread in his hand. “It could be, oh, literally anything from Kirkwall. Rat soup is traditional.”

“Unfortunately.” 

Cassandra looked alarmed. So did Vivienne, for that matter, although she was doing a much better job of not showing it. Varric grinned. “Ask the Inquisitor, she lived there too.”

Mireille nodded. “They taste a lot like rabbit. I like the fish dishes, personally. Rollmops, crappit heid…”

“Pickles wrapped in haddock,” Varric said to Cassandra, who was _really_ not bothering to hide her alarm now. “And stuffed head of cod.”

Dorian made a face. “Let’s all agree never to let the Inquisitor make us something from the Marches, then. Please. Please, let’s agree on this, right now.”

“I wonder if we could import haddock,” Mireille mused, popping the last of her second bowl of stew into her mouth. “Make cullen skink. I haven’t had that in ages.”

There was an abrupt silence, tense with held-in laughter.

Into it she said, “What? It’s a chowder, or something, it’s a soup. It’s _delicious –_ don’t give me that look, Tethras.”

Cullen said, a little faint, “Why is it called that?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, to be honest with you. It’s just how it’s called.”

Varric gave up right about then and giggled helplessly into his sleeve as Cullen adopted the kind of thousand-yard-stare a man might get when confronted with the notion that he could have been named after a haddock stew.

Dorian grinned over at him. “I suppose it could be worse, couldn’t it? You could be named for something much less palatable than _fish stew.”_

“Yes, you could be named Benedict like the eggs,” Mireille put in. “Much worse.”

He gave her a look that suggested that, in fact, it was already just about as bad as it was going to get. And that she had personally betrayed him, in fact. And that she might never convince him to cook again. It was an impressively eloquent look. Or maybe she was reading a little too much into it.

Varric opened his mouth and Cullen pointed a spoon at him. “Latrine duty. Forever.”

“Worth it,” Varric said happily, and walked away chuckling.

 

* * *

 

Night had just fallen by the time Mireille poked her head out of her tent and said to the soldier passing by, “Lieutenant, do you know where the Commander went?”

“Up the hill, Inquisitor,” the soldier said, giving her a small salute. “Checking on the camp boundaries, I’m told.”

“Mm. All right, thank you.” She ducked back inside, avoiding the muffled “Your Worship,” and glanced at the small folding table covered in the guts of her apothecary bag. Bowls and bottles and potions and poultices…she’d tried out a new recipe for a headache potion, replenished the camp’s stock of elfroot, made a few lyrium potions and stoneskin salves. Halfheartedly, she picked up a vial of dried lavender blossoms and set it next to the lemon balm.

It was very possible, she mused, adjusting the vial so the label faced perfectly outward, that they were both avoiding each other. She certainly was avoiding _him._ And he was certainly avoiding _her,_ if he was so determined to pretend his withdrawal headaches weren’t bothering him just so he wouldn’t have to speak to her.

She couldn’t go the rest of – of however long this Inquisition was going to last – without talking to him. Probably. She _ought_ to be an adult and mend the bridge, oughtn’t she?  

Mireille ran her fingers over the edge of the table, and then tucked the newly made potion into her pocket and ruffled her hair. It hadn’t stayed in the pins as she worked, and she spent a minute tucking some of the errant curls back in, and nearly pulled the whole thing out to redo it when the hair flopped right back into her face, and –

“Stop it,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Just _go,_ you idiot.”

Before she could stop herself again she walked out into the chilly air.

The clouds had nearly closed in, the wind high above clawing rents in them to reveal the stars, and this made it _very_ hard to see. Mireille waved a bright little magelight into existence above her shoulder as she headed up the hill. The clearing she’d sparred in with Vivienne looked much smaller in the dark, with the bones of the trees clustering close at its edges, and she moved through it quietly as she could.

At the top of the hill was a little bare spot, where the earth had fallen away and exposed the roots of a particularly gnarled oak still clinging to the rocky slope, and that was where she found Cullen.

She almost didn’t see him at first, since he’d tucked himself up against the bark and was rubbing the bridge of his nose so hard his forehead was red. He’d heard her approach though. As she rounded the tree he straightened up into authority and took his hand off his face. “What is it, Scout.”

“It’s me,” Mireille said, picking her way over a root. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” He was holding himself so stiffly upright she thought he might shatter if she poked him. “Do you – what do you need?”

She held out the potion bottle.

He took it with shaking fingers. He’d left his gloves behind too, and without them she could see his fingernails were bitten down to the quick. There was blood smeared over his cuticles.

“How long has it been like this?” she asked quietly.  

Cullen bit off the cork and drank the potion down in one long gulp, making a face. “You’ve more important things to worry about, Inquisitor.”

“I do.” She tucked her hands into the deep pockets of her enchanter’s coat and stepped over beside him, the little magelight following behind. “I like worrying about this better. At least I only have to deal with _you,_ not demons trying to eat me or Orlesians disparaging me or what have you.”

He huffed out a sardonic little laugh. “Well. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Mireille leaned against the bark. “It should kick in soon, I think. Do you want – I can probably do something about that headache sooner if you like.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, and then looked rather contrite about it. He was also squinting rather hard in her direction, and she waved the magelight out, enclosing them both in near-darkness.

The quiet followed after, until the raggedness of his breathing was the loudest sound.

“It’s not _worse,”_ he said after a while. “It’s, ah. It’s just what it was before.”

“That counts as worse.”

“You have more to think about than me – ”

“I’m aware,” she said, before he’d gotten more than two words out. “But you’re running this mission. This is your hunt for Samson. You need to manage this, so it doesn’t hit you at the wrong time.”

“I – ” he began, angrily, the dark shape of him turning to face her, and then he sagged and let out a long breath. “I know.”

“Why are you…” But she knew _why,_ didn’t she? “Look, I’m…I’m sorry. I think I made things complicated, asking you to stay that – that night, I…it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it. It won’t happen again.”

“You aren’t to blame,” Cullen said quietly. 

“It was a _pleasant_ mistake,” she added hastily. “I mean, as mistakes go.”

A soft laugh. His elbow shifted and brushed against her arm, just for a moment. “It certainly could have been worse.”

“Yes, I could have climbed in bed with Leliana, and she’d have stabbed me when I hit on her.”

This time he actually chuckled, and didn’t hide the sound of his wince quite well enough.

Mireille looked around. “Why are you up here?”

“For the peace and quiet,” he said dryly. She heard him shift against the tree, then sigh. “I…this is going to sound rather foolish.”

She pressed her lips together, avoiding a sharp comment.

“We…often, when I was young, the village would gather to watch the moon rise on Satinalia.” It was getting a little brighter; she could see him more clearly now, looking out over the forested valley below. “Families, children. Dogs.”

“Very Fereldan,” she agreed, and saw him smile.

“Yes, very. There was a feast, and crowns of flowers – and holly, thanks to my sister. Moon-shaped cakes and meat pies. And rabbit stew, of course. Young lovers would go off to watch the moonrise in the woods, families would gather and share news, not just the village but everyone from a day’s ride around coming together. It was always one of my favorite holidays, in simpler times.” He sighed. “Sentimental, I suppose.”

“It sounds nice.”

“It was,” he said, in a small voice.

For a while the only sound was Cullen’s careful breathing and her own beating heart, accompanied by the wind flirting gently with the dry leaves. The clouds tore apart slowly, and revealed a swath of stars, one edge of Satina’s enormous disc, a little off full.

Mireille stared up at it. Then down at the valley below, silver-tipped and soft in the early moonlight. Beyond the forest was the lake they’d passed a day ago – just a glimmer in the distance that faded as the clouds moved. The earthy-dark smell of recent rain was strong here, mingled with wild rosemary, sharp and sweet.

If Thedas could stop threatening to implode every other minute, it’d be damn beautiful.

Cullen shook himself. “I should get back, and so should you, Inquisitor.”

“Cullen,” she said quietly. “Let me help you.”

He froze, giving her a look she couldn’t parse in the poor light, and she added, “I know you’re in pain still. It’ll be a lot easier for you to get back to work if you let me do something about it. Please?”

Was he glaring at her? Probably. She stepped a little closer, and said, “You know, you asked me to help you with this.”

“I don’t know that I was explicit about asking for your help.” He was close enough she could feel the heat of his body radiating across her chest, and had to swallow very hard to get the lump out of her throat. He was also not doing a very good job of keeping the pain out of his voice, and it roughed up the edges of his words. “In fact, I believe all I did was inform you I was no longer on lyrium, and you decided you were going to take over.”

“Do you regret it?” she asked, reaching up to press her fingers to his temples.

“No,” Cullen whispered, as she shut her eyes and pulsed her magic through him.

How did he manage to work, and ride, and cook and laugh, all through a pain like this? It made her own head ache in sympathy, and it didn’t _want_ to be cured, either. She had to push more and more magic into it, felt herself grind her teeth and sweat bead at her temples as she finally eased it down and held it there until it probably wasn’t going to climb back up if she took her eye off it. There was tension in his neck too, she couldn’t really do much about that, and in his shoulders and back. Aches and pains from being in a saddle for days straight and sleeping in tents. Mireille pushed a soft wave of healing into him, just enough to refresh, and then pulled herself back out into the world at large.

She rubbed her fingers over his temples, slow patient circles, still dispersing the magic. There was blood in her mouth. But between her hands Cullen’s eyes had nearly shut, and his breathing had slowed. He’d lifted his hands to rest on her arms. Somehow she hadn’t noticed that either.

 _Maker_ she wanted to kiss him, with his scruffy jaw cupped between her palms and moonlight tousling his hair.

Instead Mireille let his face go, stepped back and let his arms fall to his sides. “Is that better?”

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, one hand coming up to rub his neck. On the tense side, she noted. “I…that’s much better.”

“It shouldn’t have been quite that difficult, but that might be the lyrium’s fault, since it’s a withdrawal headache.” She tapped a finger on her lips. “Tell me if that comes back before you go to sleep. Also, try to go to sleep while you don’t have any pain, because then you’ll probably stay asleep longer.”

“I will.” Cullen glanced up at the sky, as the moon drifted behind the clouds again. “I…you didn’t have to come and find me.”

Well, she _could_ have just left it in his tent with a note, but…She waved her hand and the magelight faded back into existence, casting a pale blue glow over them both. “I was already taking a walk.”

Oh, the light had been a bad idea, because he looked over at her with a glance that said he didn’t believe that for one second and he probably didn’t because she was probably blushing again. Mireille sighed. “Look, I feel like it’s my fault. This, this…strangeness. Consider the healing my apology.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said, looking away. “Maker knows you have nothing to be sorry for. You had to fight a bloodthirsty duchess and then listen to people dissect your character for _hours,_ I – I certainly didn’t hold it together well. You were…stressed, tired. You had every reason to want to – to forget about that any way you could.”

“What did _you_ do?” Mireille asked with interest. “Nobody mentioned anything in the war table meeting.”

“I may have blackened a chevalier’s eye,” he said under his breath, still not looking at her.

_“What.”_

“She was being – she – you don’t actually want to hear this.” He looked down at her and raised his eyebrows. “More of the same vitriol they’d been saying about you all evening. That you – that _I_ was meant to be your, your keeper, and – other such drivel.”

Mireille scoffed, half-grinning.

“Precisely.” Cullen was smiling too now. “I, ah…I was rather tired of it, and she made a particularly nasty comment about your – about you as I was leaving, and, ah. I may have punched her in the face. A bit. I don’t think she reported it to anyone. It was rather embarrassing, I suspect, being knocked out by a miller’s son and left in the garden.” He grinned brightly for just a second, rubbing his neck again. “Not particularly professional, I’m afraid.”

“But satisfying. I think I know which chevalier you’re talking about and I’ve never wanted to punch someone more in the face.”

There was some chuckling, and he was blushing a little when he glanced down at her, still smiling. She shook herself a little, shaking off the cold that was starting to creep into her enchanter’s coat. “Well. Thank you for defending my good name, such as it is, but I’m freezing and I’m going to head back.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” He frowned suddenly. “Speaking of names, were you being serious earlier? Is there really a bloody fish stew called _cullen_ skink?”

“Yes,” Mireille said, grinning. “We used to eat it all the time in Ostwick. We’re famous for smoked haddock there, actually.”

“I don’t believe Varric will ever let me live that down,” he grumbled.

She stepped back, over a tree root, and waved her arm to let him pass and lead the way down the hill. “Probably not, I’m sorry. I’d also offer to make it up to you by making it myself, but, well…”

“Yes, I’ve heard you are…an interesting cook.”

“Who said _that?_ That’s oddly kind.”

Cullen passed by her, and stepped down a boulder with ease, then extended a hand upward to her. “Blackwall, actually. Cassandra was far less kind when she warned me about it.”

“If the Herald of Andraste makes you food,” she said, pressing her palm against his to balance herself, “you’re supposed to eat it. Doesn’t that make it holy or something?”

“From what I hear, your cooking is about as far off holy as it is possible to be.” He braced her as she hopped down from the boulder, his cold fingers curling just a little around her own.

“No one said holy food had to _taste_ good.”

“It’s generally assumed to be at least somewhat delicious.”

Mireille wrinkled her nose at him. “If _I_ think it’s delicious, I think it counts. What good is being Andraste’s Herald if I can’t decree that kind of thing?”

 “A responsible use of your power,” he said dryly. The Anchor twinged through her palm in time with his words, and she pulled her hand back from his in reflex, a spark of green flickering out over his fingers.

Her face must have fallen a little. Cullen’s hand twitched as he pulled it back, as if he’d considered taking her hand in his again and thought better of it. Somewhere down in camp a voice rose in laughter and faded back out.

“Well,” she said. “Really, what else am I using it for?”

They walked in quiet for a few moments, with the trees clattering softly to themselves above.

Camp’s edge was the end of the trees, and thirty feet away from that line of light Cullen said, “You’re making a difference.”

“Not enough,” Mireille said, her voice low, the broken walls of Jainen flashing behind her eyes. “Too little, too late.”

“More than you think.”

She glanced up at the quiet conviction in his voice, and found him looking down at her, warm and worried. More quietly she said, “Not for everyone.”

Cullen squeezed her arm in reassurance. “More than anyone else has, Inquisitor.” And he reached up to tug gently on one of her loose curls before giving her a small smile and walking away, back into camp. He got about ten feet in and was immediately joined by Cassandra, and a scout, and she could just see the faint flush in his cheeks as he vanished between the tents.

For a while Mireille stood there, with the ghost of his hand lingering on her arm and a curl dangling in front of her face. Then she allowed herself one long frustrated sigh and walked back into camp.

Varric was sitting with his crossbow on the other side of the first tent, and she took one look at his face and turned to walk the opposite direction.

He caught up with her surprisingly quickly. Stupid short legs. “Get everything sorted out?”

“What?” she said with as much disinterest as she could muster.

“Freckles,” Varric said, chidingly. “I’m not blind. You two have been avoiding each other more than usual and he blushes whenever he’s ten feet from you. And so do you, you just think you’re hiding it better. So something happened, and hopefully you’ve fixed it. _How_ you fixed it – ”

“I can’t hear you, I’m too busy rolling my eyes.”

“I know, I know, it’s none of my business.”

“Yes,” Mireille said archly. “Precisely, especially since _nothing happened,_ especially in the way you think it happened.”  

“I’m just saying,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, “you could do worse – ”

“I have a few more things to worry about than – than _romance,”_ she snapped, but quietly. “I have a whole bloody world to put back together, and a fistful of countries to save from a fifteen-foot darkspawn magister with red lyrium in his face, not to mention the Wardens going missing right when they’d be most useful and everything that’s still going on with the mages, and – I could go on.”

Varric chuckled, but there was a gentle sadness around his eyes. “Yeah, I know you could. But romance is pretty nice, as distractions go.” He patted her elbow. “You can’t think about that shit all the time. You’ll go insane.”

“I might go insane with you lot trying to – to – set me up,” she grumbled, but it was halfhearted. Half the time she dragged herself awake in the middle of the night it was with that dark red voice in her ears, promising her the slow death of everyone and everything. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Well, Bull’s not here so I can’t try and set up Dorian,” he said cheerfully. “And Scout Harding’s off in the desert, and I don’t think the Seeker is into ladies.”

“I _know,_ I tried once.” Mireille stuck out her tongue. “You didn’t include yourself in that list, you know.”

“How could I leave Bianca?” He stroked the crossbow’s stock lovingly. Bordering on lewdly. “She’s the only one for me.”

Mireille snorted. “You like a girl that can fire a bolt two hundred feet through solid steel, huh?”

“One of her many fine qualities.” Varric grinned up at her. “Don’t overthink it too much, Freckles. Just let it happen.”

It’s not that _simple,_ she wanted to say, or maybe scream it from the top of the hill so everyone could hear her, but it’d mean – admitting something was happening in the first place. So she just raised her eyebrows in unimpressed disdain. He just chuckled and walked away, with Bianca slung over his shoulder.

Mireille huffed and ducked into her own tent. There was still plenty to do before turning in, after all. Repacking her apothecary bag, for a start. Making a few more headache relief potions, in slightly varying concentration, and carefully labeling and storing them away.

And if she spent an hour writing a few short missives to Josephine and Vivienne, asking them both to check in, please, on these particular Circles throughout Ferelden and Orlais and the Free Marches, and if no response was received within two weeks, to send a contingent of soldiers headed by at least two mages…well, that was her business, too.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys, i'm so slow. life is hard and busy and i appreciate you sticking with me. i AM going to finish this fic. i am definitely hoping it stops taking three months for me to update, haha, but i've already got about half the next chapter done, so that's promising!! you're all beautiful and great and thank you, sincerely, for reading, and i hope you stick with me because we are leaving fluff station for PAIN TOWN very soon, haha. 
> 
> i'm more active on [the tumblr](https://sirinial.tumblr.com) if you want to send me prompts or yell about dragon age or what have you! 
> 
> btw, "cullen skink" is real. i think of the free marches as a weird british isles mishmosh with a lot of scottish influence and i couldn't pass up namedropping it after i found it on a list of scottish dishes haha. (in contrast, Ferelden's cuisine is German inspired -- Cullen's making something like hasenpfeffer here.) (thank you lonely-spaghetti for the extensive discussion of Thedosian foods!!)


	25. Chapter 25

The clouded sky was flickering, red and orange and _wrong,_ and somewhere in the long grass Cullen muttered, “They know we’re coming.”

“It could be the lyrium,” Varric said, from farther down the ridge.

“That’s a _lot_ of lyrium.” Mireille redoubled her grip on her staff, rubbing her thumb over the familiar dents and divots in the wood. “I really hope it’s not the lyrium.”

“Move out.” And Cullen hoisted himself over the ridge and began to move toward the dark shape of the shrine through the trees. Cassandra and the soldiers flooded after him, and then Varric and Dorian, and Mireille leapt a small log and headed down the slope, followed by a pair of scouts.

They spread out in a long line, moving up through the grounds of the temple, through the wide courtyard and splitting into two packs at a sharp hand signal from Cullen to flow up the stairs. Mireille nodded Dorian toward the left and followed Cassandra up the right side, and felt the soft crackle of his barrier settle on his half of the soldiers. Every clack of breastplate on chain or scabbard against greave made her twitch. There was smoke in the air, a weird oily tang on her tongue with every breath.

There was a gate at the top of the stairs, half open, hanging off its hinges, and Cullen waved an arm. Two scouts slipped forward along the walls and vanished into the open mouth of the courtyard.

Mireille felt out with her magic, wrapping her own barrier around her half of the party, sequestering her awareness so she wouldn’t lose focus on it. She saw a couple of the former Templar soldiers roll their shoulders in discomfort and one glanced up at her for just a moment before reorienting herself on the door. Cassandra, beside her, just eased her sword a little farther out of its sheath.

The scouts returned, and there was a quiet exchange that Mireille didn’t catch. Cullen across the way held up a series of fingers, gestured right and left, and then chopped straight forward. He and Cassandra charged forward and around the corner, followed by the six soldiers, and then there was a screaming hiss and Cullen yelled “Forward, Inquisition!” and everything descended into red-tinged chaos.

Mireille clenched her jaw and followed, squinting against the oily smoke as she reached for the Fade. It felt too – too close, too much like that dark green nightmare future with the heavy hum of red lyrium thick in the air, and she realized she’d frozen when an arrow clattered across her barrier two inches from her head. She shook herself and spun her staff, pushing mana through it to call down a lightning strike.

There were, she counted, as the lightning struck once, twice, three four five times across the smoky courtyard – something like eight of the big monstrosities, a couple with the spikes on their arms, and four of the normal Templars, and archers and those things that shot red lyrium on the walls, and – was that chunk of lyrium _moving_ back there? Fuck –

“Behemoth!” a soldier yelled, and took an arrow in the chest, and Mireille leapt forward and into the fight.

The woman went down on a knee and another soldier leapt back as a spike-armed creature sliced forward, red lyrium grating sparks off his shield. It thrust another arm forward and this one skittered off Mireille’s staff. She flicked the bladed end inward and cut open a window in the battered Templar brigandine before the arms were moving forward again, catching against the sturdy wood of her staff a _little_ too close to her face – and then the soldier recovered and put his sword a foot through the bared chest. The creature screamed through half formed lips, went down rattling and keening, and Mireille bit down hard on her tongue and dropped to one knee by the wounded soldier. “Hold still, this is going to hurt.”

The woman gurgled. Good enough. Mireille ripped the arrow out, slapped a very hasty healing spell through the rent muscle and split lung, and then – back up and in. She stabbed through the fallen creature’s neck to make sure it was dead, and then forward toward another lumpy monstrosity. Block left, block right, _fucking duck_ as a set of claws came over her head, and shove the staff through anatomy too twisted to be quite human and offering a little more resistance than usual –

A fireball knocked the creature back, a soldier took off its head, and she jumped back so it wouldn’t fall on her. One less monster.

Then there was sharp pain and without even thinking she wrapped the Fade around herself and vanished from sight, passed _through_ the next two Templars, one hand clapped to her thigh. The arrow had probably been meant for her belly, but she’d jumped up and back –

She fixed her eyes on the archer and reached out with the third arm of her magic, lit him on fire with a wave of her hand. Take out the archers. Leave the beasts for the soldiers. She could do this. She’d done it before.

Mireille wiped her bloody palm on her breeches and drew her sword, and started to run.

This didn’t seem to be what the Red Templars expected, because the closest one took about four seconds too long to raise his bow again and therefore took the entirety of her slash through his hip and _up_ into his ribcage, cutting through the armor like paper. He dropped in utter shock.

The second archer dropped his bow and drew a pair of daggers instead, and parried her first strike on them, showering them both with sparks. She leapt back from the first slash and flicked a wrist. The glowing spirit blade carved along the man’s thigh as he tried to juke away from it and failed, and with a hiss he reached out and _did something,_ dropping a knife to do it.

It wasn’t a full spell purge, those took longer to cast, but the sword in her hand wavered as ice ran down her spine. The other dagger came up through the flickering blade, fast, up and then _down_ for the space between everite pauldron and leather gorget –

Mireille jabbed the blunt end of staff forward into his unprotected throat. The man choked and stumbled back one step, just long enough that she could drop the useless hilt, get two hands on the staff, and whip the bladed end back around to slice his neck open. Hot blood sprayed across her forehead as she ducked under his falling body toward the next enemy.

The next man died with a crossbow bolt in his belly and the next with her staff in his knee and an arrow in his eye, and she thought inanely that they really ought to bring more of their own archers along next time they routed a temple full of crazed Templars, and then she was advancing on the last monstrosity peppering her soldiers with red lyrium bolts. It cocked its head at her and whipped a lanky arm across, and the red lyrium passed through her suddenly intangible belly, and it _still_ left a trail of humming heat in her gut that made her stumble back out of the Fade.

The horror snarled through its dented helm and backhanded her so hard she spun. Blood burst in her mouth and the hand was coming back around and Mireille, growling, lopped it off at the wrist. The bones inside the arm were _glowing –_ It screamed out something too close to words for comfort and its chest began to glow brighter, a barrier crackling into life along its skin, and Mireille stabbed forward right through its chest before it could take shape.

Maker, she wanted to throw up. Her face hurt and her thigh hurt and the air was rough and thick in her throat and she desperately, desperately wanted to throw up, looking at the gurgling, dying thing gazing up at her with round wet eyes.

Her stomach twisted. No _time._

She ran down the stairs instead, stumbling into a crate to halt her momentum and steady her shaky legs. Leaning against the wood she reached out again for the Fade and pulled a barrier down over the soldiers as they fought through the ranks toward the door of the shrine. They’d almost made it all the way through. The arrow-shot soldier she’d healed was moving slowly forward, her shield held up high and tight. Front and center in the mass was Cassandra’s bright shield and her long battlemaster’s coat, hacking through a creature more monster than human, her sword-arm protected by Cullen’s shield. Mireille spun her staff again, throwing another storm of lightning across the field. Just a few left out here, more inside probably, but that’d – they’d deal with that.

And then it occurred to her that she’d seen a big fucking chunk of red lyrium _moving,_ and where had _that_ gone –

A crackling rumble filled the whole world, blotting out even the lyrium hum, as the behemoth’s smashing arm broke through the doors and about half of the wall into the shrine. And over the wall came more knights, more Red Templars, screaming animal defiance.

Very clearly, she heard Varric yell, _“Fuck.”_

Mireille winced at the first hit on her barrier and pulled it closer over the soldiers, knitting it together over and over with every blow, as the Inquisition met the Red Templars below the crumbling doorway. Dorian was doing something necromantic – she could feel the dark violet twist of his fear magic working fifty feet away – and when a panicked near-human Templar broke the line and dashed for the stairs she only had to extend her sword and he ran himself through on it.

Odd to be on the other end of that for once –

Mireille swallowed the blood in her mouth and switched to her staff, swinging it through the familiar forms, loosing a series of firebolts across the gap to knock the Red Templars off their feet and send their blows awry. Cullen and Cassandra were still facing the behemoth nearly alone, dodging the big heavy swipes of its claw and the growing spikes of lyrium emerging from the ground, as the soldiers around them hacked into the smaller targets. From here she could see blood on Cassandra’s armor, dark stains on Cullen’s orange coat, their movements just a little too slow and a little too late, Cassandra’s shield battered back under the hammering claw –  

A mangled red knight struck out for Cullen’s back and Mireille didn’t even think, just reached for ice and it was there, pinning the thing in place so a crossbow bolt could shatter its frozen skull. She reached again. Froze the swinging crystal arm for just a second, long enough that a sword could sink into what passed for a joint. Froze one leg to the ground and the behemoth _screamed,_ a high long painful note that threw weird harmonies off the stone walls. Froze the other and then turned, as a knight came toward her and froze solidly in place so she could cut him apart with the sword, she was running out of magic and it wasn’t coming back fast enough and Dorian’s barrier settled on her skin instead of her own.

Mireille swung her staff at another helmeted head and made the Templar stumble, smacked it again with a clang. The woman spat and thrust her sword forward and growled, “Just _die already,_ mage – he wants you _dead – ”_

Her sword moved too slow and too straight, the blade ruddy-bright with firelight and lyrium glow, and Mireille couldn’t _move –_

A crossbow bolt appeared in the Templar’s arm. She dropped the sword with a screech.

Mireille found a breath and reached forward blindly, and a weak frost spell stuck the Templar’s feet to the ground for half a second, long enough that she could redouble her grip on the staff and swing. Wood hit metal with a hard _crack_ and the woman stumbled, clutching her arm, and a soldier’s shield knocked her back far enough that Mireille could move back a few paces. Just a couple. Just to breathe. The woman died with a sword thrust under her armpit, crumpling to the ground.

Mireille looked up, panting, and saw the behemoth’s claw come around, saw a flash of orange as Cullen tried to dodge. The claw caught him in the side and threw him thirty feet into what remained of the wall. His skull cracked against a red lyrium spike and there was bright red on his coat, coursing down his temple, and for one sharp moment the hot red light glittered crystalline off the blood on his face and her traitor legs still _would not move –_

A Templar charged toward her and she whipped around and, without thinking, _reached._

The thing is, about magic – once you learn how to do something, you remember the path you took to get there. The first lightning bolt is hard, but the second is easier. It’s like learning to catch a ball. The muscles remember.

Once, she’d reached into the body of someone she’d called friend and found their heart and _squeezed –_

The red Templar crumpled with a quiet sigh, and Mireille stepped over it without a thought, stepped forward. There was no magic left in her. It didn’t matter. She glanced over the next monster and with a smooth stroke Cullen might have been proud of she hamstrung it, let a soldier take off its grasping arm, deflected the sword strike to scrape along the inner line of her pauldron as she stabbed her staff blade through the slit in the worn helm, through bone and skin and cartilage and back behind to softer stuff. Her stomach was already just a cold knot. One more gruesome death didn’t matter anymore.

Cassandra shouted, clear and loud across the hum of battle, _“Maker take you,”_ and thrust her sword entirely through the behemoth’s claw. It cracked in half. The creature’s scream grated off the walls and Mireille pushed one last frost spell out of her staff, pinning its feet in place so Cassandra and three soldiers could take off its arms and its head. Arrows feathered half the corpses spread around its feet, and the last Red Templar died with a rattling groan as a crossbow bolt appeared in his throat.

Mireille leaned on her staff, the wound in her thigh burning and her fingers tingling and sweaty, and breathed.

One of their own Templars trotted past her, joining the other, both in bloodied Inquistion gear, and she heard one whisper, “What _was_ that? Did y’ see…” and the other reply, “I don’t know. I’ve never – I’ve never seen magic like that before. She…”

Both of them – the one with the Tantervale accent was Finley, she was allergic to spindleweed, and Danlen was quite concerned that no one would be feeding Skyhold’s many cats while he was out on missions – turned surreptitiously to look at her, and fear crystallized around her all at once, snapping into place as she watched Finley’s trembling hand open and close three inches above the hilt of her sword.

_It’s your fault,_ whispered a thought, the one always waiting for the thrust. How could she have expected anything different?

“Hey…hey. Inquisitor.”

She’d had her hand pressed to her belly, she still did, and she blinked down at Varric. There was a hum in the air still, counterpoint to the crackle of what she was sure now were flames from inside. It set her teeth on edge.

Varric took her elbow, gently. “Come on, Inquisitor. We’ve still got work to do.”

Mireille blinked and said, too loud and too late, “Oh, fucking _Maker,”_ and limped into a jog, her eyes fixed on the bloodied orange cloak piled beneath a shower of rubble. 

 

* * *

 

He’d never been so _thirsty._

The dark red song pulsed hard behind his eyes, making it hard to focus, and there was just pain and just thirst, twisting together to stoke up an oily rage that burned and boiled in his gut –

Cullen knew, somewhere in his bones, that he could make it stop. Just one vial. It wasn’t the crystal clear ring of blue lyrium singing in his ears. It wasn’t _right_ , and he shied away from it and back into clean blue fantasies before logic could do more than protest, until he’d imagined it so hard he could nearly taste that sharp coldness in the back of his throat.

Dimly he knew he’d been moved. The logical part of his brain told him he’d been lifted, while the animal kicked out weakly and snapped at his soldiers as they carried him out of the shrine. It didn’t matter. The low wail of red lyrium was still there, dulling the pain into a banked-coal burn in his side. Part of him said: you’ve been hurt. But you’re safe, as long as none of it got inside you. Maker forbid if it had…

The rest tasted the damp still air around him and said: _you’re trapped again._

When the first touch of magic buzzed along his arm he struck out after it, felt the broken bone rip through muscle, but his fist connected with something and then someone was _holding him down_ and he spat out, “Get _away,_ get away, get away – _what are you doing to me –_ ”

A voice in his ear said, “Cullen, relax. We have to see to your injuries. Let the Inquisitor – ”

“Let me _go, don’t – don’t touch me – ”_

Nothing looked real or solid through the thick haze of pain, his arm was on fire, and another voice – a low voice, a rough-edged accent that he _knew_ he should know, should remember – said, “All right, new plan. Hold him still. I’m going to drug him.”

Cullen lashed out wildly with his good arm, and _hit,_ judging by the swearing, and growled, “You _will not_ take me – ” and then someone had clamped a hand firmly over his mouth. He bit down. Nothing much happened, since the hand was covered in a metal glove.

Someone else said, “Are they all still like this?”

“No,” the low voice said, flat and tired. “The other three are getting better, he’s…not. I don’t know _why,_ I can’t find anything, I just – I don’t know. Open his mouth.”

He snarled and then his face was taken, his mouth held open. He tried to bite them, tried to pull away or kick or _something_ , and white pain lanced through his arm and made him yelp and flinch – a bottle was put to his lips and it wasn’t the cold bite of the blue stuff, it was just something bitterly herbal, _poison_ said the animal. Strong fingers held his jaw closed, pinched his nose. He had to swallow it down. “Come on, Curly,” someone said. “You remember what happened to Meredith. You’re better than that.”

Meredith. _Meredith,_ the statue, the battle beforehand, the low reddish hum that pervaded all thoughts of those days – Cullen ground his teeth as whatever he’d drunk spread hot and lethargic through his chest and nodded against the fingers holding his head upright. They curled along his jaw just briefly and then let go, dropped his head and let him sink fully into the Fade, where at least the song couldn’t catch him. 

 

* * *

 

Mireille wasn’t asleep. You couldn’t call this sort of restless fugue sleep. She was just…existing, her head pillowed on her arms, watching the shadows move across the floor of the ravine through the tent flap. Dawn was coming, somewhere behind the rainclouds. Probably.

Hopefully.

Beside her Dorian shifted at last, sitting forward to prop his elbows on the small desk strewn with books and papers. He rubbed his eyes very carefully as she sat up. Probably that was why his eyeliner wasn’t smudged at all, whereas hers was smeared half across her face, at best guess. “Well, we’ve been terribly productive, haven’t we.”

Mireille sighed and ran her hands through her hair, pulling a few pins out until it gave up and flopped en masse down her back. “Is there even a point? If we can’t remember hearing the name – there’s no records from there. No proof we were in the future. It’s not like we can go back.”

“Thank the Maker,” Dorian said fervently, folding his arms. He huffed out an annoyed sigh that did manage to ruffle his mustache a little. “Well, perhaps it’ll turn out to be unimportant in the end. We’ve stopped an assassination already, and we’ve – maybe – a lead on this demon army. This can’t be a key factor.”

“I hope so.” Mireille shut her eyes. They felt almost sticky.

Dorian put his hand on her shoulder, and she realized it about half a second after she flinched from the unexpected touch. He lifted his hand, brows knitting together, and she waved her own hand in dismissal. Then reached out and patted his knuckles for good measure.

“Are you alright?” he asked, leaning forward.

She nodded.

“Let me rephrase.” He knitted his fingers together. “I’m aware you’re not all right, and if you’d rather not speak of it I do understand, but I’m dreadfully nosy. And worried for you.”

Mireille waved her hand again in dismissal. “It’s nothing.”

“Stopping a Red Templar’s heart is not nothing. It’s a rather impressive bit of magic, in fact, and not something I think they generally teach in the Circle – ”

“Get some rest,” she said, standing up. “I’m going to check on our wounded.” And before Dorian could protest or try to pin her down for some kind of confession she picked up her staff and stepped out of the tent into the damp air.

They’d made a hasty camp in the base of this ravine, where it’d be difficult to attack them en masse, in case Samson was waiting for them somewhere. Mireille stepped as quietly as she could through the puddles and made her way past the gently smoking fire to the shelter they’d set up in haste for the worst wounded.

It took her far too long to check the healing spells. There was a mana headache building up in her temples, too much magic used too quickly, although at least it was better than the _last_ time she’d tried that particular bit of magic and laid herself up for two days straight. But the arrowshot woman would be all right, and the scout who’d nearly lost a hand was sleeping peacefully, his bandaged fingers twitching a little. That was a good sign. The Templar who’d broken a leg was sleeping too – Remy, she thought his name was, he’d thought a Red Templar dead and been rewarded with a heavy steel shield to the knee – much less peacefully, but the leg would be fine.

And then…

They’d put him in a separate tent, because he kept talking in his sleep. Or humming, rather. He seemed to have stopped for the moment. Mireille closed the tent flap behind herself and laid down her staff, then knelt down on the ground next to the bedroll.

Cullen hadn’t moved since she’d left him. Of course, she’d drugged him rather thoroughly. She waved a hand and the lamp lit itself, casting a warm light over his bare shoulders and the deep bruise around the stitches on his temple. His arm still lay in the sling bound across his chest.

As she reached for his arm again, he twitched and shivered, and hummed a snatch of song. The same tuneless notes that red lyrium sang, that just barely buzzed in her memory now that they were far enough away.  

Mireille sighed and reached out with her magic. The wound in his forehead had stitched up cleanly, the broken ribs just cracked now, healing slowly under a lasting spell and a swath of bandages. His side was dark purple and brown where the gambeson had blunted the impact of breastplate on skin. Amazing he’d managed that little injury, with the size of the dent in his armor, but she’d caught the internal bleeding early…The broken arm was still bound in its sling across his chest, and she’d have _words_ with him later about the bruise on her cheekbone she’d been too tired to heal.

But there was nothing else. There was no infection, there was no concussion. There was nothing buried in his skin. There was no shrapnel, no piece of red lyrium stuck inside him, poisoning him, it was just – he just –

She pressed her other hand against his bare shoulder and focused. It _sang._ If it was there, if that was why he was – well, she’d find it and she’d get it _out._ If she could hear bones and breath and blood, in place and out of it, listen for discord and find it that way, she could find what was wrong. And fix it.

Under her hands, Cullen shifted and said, “Mnh. Nnn. No.”

Mireille blinked down at him, but he appeared to still be asleep. Mostly. The muscles in his stomach flexed hard, then relaxed with a wince as his ribs contracted. His face hadn’t been calm, but it creased in pain, lines deepening under his eyes and tugging at the stitches.

“Stop moving,” she murmured, pulsing a gentle healing into his body, dredging up whatever she had left to do it. “It’s just me, Rutherford. It’s me.”

“No. Nn – ” He shifted again, his closed eyes scrunching shut, his lip curling up in a half snarl. “Nat. _Natalie. No – don’t – ”_

“Rutherford. Come on. It’s me, it’s – ” Would he know her as the Inquisitor? Or just Mireille? Did it matter, since he seemed to think she was someone else? “It’s me. It’s – it’s Trevelyan. Don’t – you’re going to rip a stitch and I’m going to be _mad –_ ”

His eyes flew open and she couldn’t hold him down, as he surged upward and flinched as his arm moved in its sling, then flinched again, away from her hands, scrambling backward so fast he kicked her in the wounded thigh _of fucking course,_ and she gasped for air as Cullen’s back hit the ravine wall through the canvas side of the tent. He was muttering very, very fast under his breath. And, yes, he’d managed to pull a stitch, because blood was trickling down the side of his face. She _ought_ to have healed that. She ought to have –

_“Get away from me,”_ Cullen snarled, as she tried to blink the dizziness away. “Get _away,_ get away – _don’t touch me, demon.”_ He’d backed himself into the corner as much as possible, his bare feet scrabbling against the dirt, his one good arm crossed over his body to protect himself. There was no recognition at all in his eyes. “St-steel – steel my heart – you will _not_ take me, I will – where’s my – ”

His hand patted the wall, the tent floor beside him, and she was suddenly very glad she’d made sure his sword was across camp in Cassandra’s tent. It kicked the sudden panic down from unbearable to just bone-chilling. Mireille held out her hands. “It’s _me._ It’s Mireille. Remember? You’re safe. You’re in camp, you’re safe, I’m taking care of you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Cullen stared at her with wide wet eyes. His voice was still high and breathless, cracking at the edges. “W-what did you – why am I – you _drugged me – ”_

“You were doing your best to murder me because you didn’t know who I was,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended to. “All I did was give you a sleeping potion. I splinted your broken arm, Rutherford. Do you remember that? You ought to, you punched me in the face when I did it. Do you remember what happened? You’re safe.”

He blinked, and she spread her hands wide, swallowing hard around the fear lodged in her throat. He didn’t _need_ a sword to hurt her, not if he wanted to, not with those muscles. “Rutherford, it’s _me._ I know you remember me. We – we – ” She shook her head hard enough to make her loose hair flutter. “You taught me to fight properly, we’ve known each other months now. You’re the Inquisition’s Commander, you’re our military advisor. You’re not in Kinloch.” The word made him wince, his good hand jerking up to his bicep, digging his fingers into his own skin. “You’re in Orlais, which I realize isn’t that comforting, but it’s – we’re in camp, an Inquisition camp. You’re safe. Come on. You’re all right. Remember?”

Cullen was still panting, his frown settling deeper between his eyebrows. “I – It’s. It’s – I – I’m not – ”

“You’re not full of red lyrium or anything. You were just – hurt, that’s all. Broken arm, broken ribs.” She shuffled a little bit closer, watched his eyes flicker between her hands and her staff and her face, over and over. “You also just pulled a stitch in your head, I think. Will you let me fix it? Do you remember who I am? It’s just me.”

He shifted his shoulder, the only thing he could move on his left side with his arm strapped to his chest. “I – I – take this _off._ Take it off me. Please.”

“You’ll hurt yourself, I’m not – ”

“I don’t – ” He snarled down at the sling and up at her as she moved closer, and peeled it off his arm, unwinding the cloth from around his good shoulder with jerky, impatient motions. He tossed it to the ground. His ribs were still bandaged, and he examined them for a long moment before leaving them on, cradling his broken arm close to his chest. “Where’s – my, my – my sword. Where is my _sword. Please,_ I – I – ”

“Cassandra has it. _Listen_ to me, for once, Rutherford, will you – ” There was something cold and nasty in the gaze he leveled at her that stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth and made her want to run as far as she could. “Will you _fucking_ listen to me,” she snapped instead, her voice cracking at the edges. “I know you know me. You know I’m not going to hurt you, Cullen. We – you had _sex_ with me a week ago, for fuck’s sake, I – ” She nudged her staff with her toe, just to make sure it was close enough to grab. The wound in her thigh throbbed with every pounding heartbeat and it was making it hard to think.

Cullen’s fingers were so tight on his arm his knuckles were turning red and white, but he huffed out a weak laugh, his shoulders relaxing just a hair. “I – no, I do, I…I remember _that.”_

“Good,” Mireille muttered, with some petulance. It made him laugh again. Still weak, still panting with fear, but it was a start. “I’d hope so.”

“Can you – ” His gaze flicked behind her. “Please, I – I – you’ve – I – I need to be – not in here.”

She glanced back at the tent flap, then back at him, and slowly tied the flap back as far as it could go. It let in an immediate gust of cool wet wind and Cullen gasped, shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. A shiver ran across his bare shoulders. Mireille sat back on her heels, scooting out of the way. “I don’t really think you ought to be walking around right now, you’ve got three cracked ribs, but you already took off the bloody sling, so what does that matter.”

He swallowed again, as if he were gulping down something nasty. “It’s – it’s fine. I – M-maker, please, I – ” It took him a long moment to find coherency, mumbling through phrases from the Chant, and she bit down on her tongue to keep herself from rushing him. Oh, she had the magic sword, but if she could _avoid_ having to – to –  

She bit the inside of her cheek instead, quite hard, and held out her hands. “Rutherford. Will you let me look at your wounds? Would that be all right?”

Cullen gave her a long, worried look, but at last he nodded.  

Carefully she scooted closer, until she could sit crosslegged beside his hunched knees. Surprisingly, he hadn’t actually popped one of the stitches in his head, just torn the skin around the thread with all the sudden motions. Mireille reached up very slowly. “I’m going to touch you. Tell me if – if you want me to stop.”

He didn’t stop her, although he did flinch back when her fingers touched his jaw. Yes, it was just a rip in the skin. Probably not even worth a healing spell, but it’d be worth cleaning the blood off his face…”All right,” she said. “Let me clean this up again. You’re all right. You didn’t break a stitch, thank the bloody Maker, I don’t want to stitch this again.”

He closed his eyes briefly, opened them again, and huffed another weak laugh out through his nose. “I – I’m sorry.”

When she made to get up Cullen’s hand moved unexpectedly upward toward her face and she flinched back, and he winced in kind as his left arm moved. He sighed, a long frustrated breath. “I’m – I’m sorry, I – I – please don’t go. P-please.”

“You’re bleeding,” Mireille said, with more snap than was warranted, perhaps. More softly she added, “I’ll come right back, I promise.”

He didn’t move to stop her leaving, and it was nearly a relief to back away. Her stomach was clenched so hard it ached all along the once-torn muscle in the center, her back tensing painfully tight along her spine as she stood up.  

Maker. It’d been barely a week since she’d been drunk in a four-poster bed with him and he’d been just – just a man, who liked freckles, and struggled with corsetry, and made a decent distraction from all the weight on her shoulders. And now here she was, two feet and ten miles away from the broken Templar he was underneath.

But she came back with a cloth soaked in alcohol, because he was bleeding and she’d promised, and very gently dabbed at the blood on his face. He was quivering under her hands and her own fingers shook too, as she wiped the blood from his cheek, his temple, around the cut in his head.

“How – are the soldiers all right?” Cullen asked. “Did anyone – did we – did we find – ” He’d lowered one knee to the ground, clutching his left arm close, the fingers opening and closing.

“Everyone’s fine. Samson wasn’t there, moved out and left these stragglers to cover his escape, but we recovered some tools and the body of his...assistant, I guess. We had some injuries – one of the soldiers almost lost a hand, a couple of nasty arrow wounds…” She dabbed at the cut itself, gently, but it’d stopped oozing for the most part. It made him wince. “You were injured. Lucky hit from the behemoth.”

He raised his splinted arm, and flinched as it twisted. “I – yes. I recall.”

“You…” Mireille sat back on her heels, barely in arm’s reach. “You brought three Templars, or former Templars. All of them reacted poorly to the red lyrium. Headaches, suddenly paranoid. Humming. Couldn’t stand magic. I used a healing spell and Remy told me ‘it felt wrong’ and the other two near pulled me off him. You said the same thing, your reaction was just more…uh, violent.”

“I… I don’t understand.” He licked his lips. His eyes were on her face, steadier now, lingering on the bruise on her cheekbone that she hadn’t had the energy to heal.

“We learned in Sahrnia – well, in the Hinterlands, but in Sahrnia too – that red lyrium affects mages poorly.” Her hands were shaking on her own knees, gripping the soft leather of her breeches. “Especially with proximity. Headaches, everything feels sort of…odd. The Fade’s too close, or something like that. It stands to reason Templars feel that effect too, maybe even worse. Raw lyrium doesn’t do anyone any favors when it’s _not_ red, so – paranoia, reacting differently to magic, headaches. Especially if you touch the stuff, which I think you did by running into it headfirst.” She breathed in, slowly. “One of your Templars takes her lyrium in the evening. None of them responded to healing potions or any of my other draughts, but she seems better and reports less pain, and she told me she didn’t know what she was thinking after the battle. And – lyrium helps mages with the symptoms too, it…washes out the song. So.”

Cullen let out a long shuddering breath, finally looking away.

“I’d just say we don’t take Templars to red lyrium enclaves. We did fine today, but – well.” She rolled her shoulders a few times, trying to shake out the tension in her spine. “We’ll be better prepared next time.”

His right hand ran up through his hair and took a tight grip on the rumpled curls. “I – I should be taking it.”

“Well – ”

“I should be. If I’m to – to do _this…”_ He tried to gesture with his left arm, bared his teeth, and then waved the other hand at her face. “If every time I – I encounter this – I’m going to _hurt_ you, or someone, and be _useless,_ I – I _have_ to take it.”

“Don’t throw it all away for one bad night, Rutherford.”

He laughed, a sharp bark too loud for the confines of the tent. “I’m afraid I’ll only ever be one bad night away, Inquisitor. This is – it’s something Corypheus uses constantly. It’s _inside him._ This is not a threat I can surmount by – by _trying,_ unfortunately.”

Mireille watched him, carefully. His shoulders had sunk, but there was a definite quiver in them she could see from here. He licked his lips and raked his good hand through his hair again, then dropped it to rest on his bicep. There were already bloody crescents dotting his skin.

“I know what I owe you,” he said, quietly. “I know what you – what the Inquisition needs of me, and this is not it. I – I have to take it. I cannot give you any less than I gave the Chantry, or the Circle.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “And what _did_ you give the Chantry? Another loyal Templar? Another sword to stick into problems? You’re already giving more to the Inquisition than you ever did to the fucking Circle, Rutherford. You don’t need to add lyrium to that.”

One of his hands rose to his forehead, to rub the line between his brows. His eyes were fixed unseeing on the open flap of the tent, his splinted arm resting on his raised knee, his hand opening and clenching closed over and over. She could hear him grinding his teeth.

“I’ll keep looking,” she added, more quietly. “There must be something we can do.”

“And if – if there isn’t?” Cullen was glaring at her now. “What will you do if there’s no tidy answer to this problem, Trevelyan? Waste time and resources on propping up a lost cause out – out of misplaced sentiment?”

She blinked and said, “What?”

He glanced away, glaring beyond her out of the open tent flap with reddening cheeks.

Mireille’s questing fingers found her staff on the ground. They rubbed across the new scars in the wood, worrying at a splinter until it came loose and poked her in the finger. Somewhere out in the ravine a bird sang tentatively to the coming morning, breaking up the settling silence.

Cullen glanced back down between them, flushed all the way down to his shoulders and unwilling to meet her eyes, and muttered, “I won’t – I am a burden to you and the Inquisition like this, Herald. I know the solution.”

For one long second anger flared hot and wild in her chest, because how _dare_ he make this about his own failures when it was her own that kept her up all night, when she should have _seen_ this coming after the Emprise, should have _known,_ shouldn’t be so fucking _weak,_ should _do something_ about the named fear that had coiled up like a spring behind her lungs and _compressed_ itself so hard the release would _hurt –_ and then she shivered and lowered her shoulders, and all the fury dropped out of her ribs and left her empty and aching again.

“It’s your decision,” she said flatly, sitting back. “I won’t make it for you. I won’t replace you unless it’s actually needed. You’re competent and your position with the Templars buys us some favor in both noble and Chantry circles. You lend us respectability, your position of power makes it harder to question why a _mage_ holds the reins of this particularly well-armed wagon.” It was impossible to avoid a growing derision in her voice. “And with the loss of most of the Templars to Corypheus, the Chantry isn’t supplying lyrium. I suspect it will be useful very soon to understand more about lyrium withdrawal. It is not a waste of resources. I don’t do this out of – of _sentiment,_ I – just – stop _martyring_ yourself.” Mireille pressed her palms into her knees and looked away. “If you don’t want to take it, don’t take it. But we’re not the fucking Chantry. I won’t decide this for you.”

Cullen seemed to draw in on himself a little more, shrinking back against the wall of the tent. He sighed very quietly through his nose and shut his eyes, and nodded.

The sling he’d been wearing was still lying on the ground between them. Slowly she picked it up and began to dust it off, for something to do with her hands.

After a moment he opened his eyes and lifted his left arm, slowly, considering it for a moment. Mireille saw him glance over her shoulder at the still open tent flap, then back at her, and he held out his good hand.

She shook her head and brushed the last of the dirt off the sling, then sat forward on her knees with a groan. Cullen let her move his arms into position and wrap the sling back around his good shoulder without more than a soft grunt as she settled his arm into the cloth. There were goosebumps rising on his bare chest. She fussed with the sling for a long moment, adjusting the cloth more than she really needed to, checking the bandage wound around his ribs.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, so quietly she might not have heard it had she not been quite so close. “I – I certainly didn’t intend to…” His good hand rose hesitantly, then dropped back into his lap.

“I did set your arm back in place. It isn’t a pleasant experience, especially not when you’re under the effects of red lyrium.” Mireille couldn’t quite stop herself from watching his hand, but in the half light of approaching morning the anguish was cut deep into his face, and it made it a little easier to be wry about it. “You _bit_ Cassandra. She said she’s had worse, though.”

He coughed out something between a laugh and a sob. “I – I suppose that must be true, given she’s fought dragons.”

“And a lot of bears.”

“Yes.” Cullen shivered, just a bit, tucking his good arm over the bad one. His eyes darted past her to the tent flap as if checking it hadn’t closed when he’d looked away, then back to her face for a moment, then back down. “I…still. I didn’t – ”

“Don’t,” she said, cutting off whatever was left of his sentence with a wave of her hand. “It’s all right. We’re out of that place, everyone survived, we’re not defeated yet. You didn’t even punch me _that_ hard. I’ve had plenty worse. Just – just keep the sling on, and – ”

He pressed two fingers against her lips, suddenly, making her flinch. “Please – just – let me speak. Please?”

Mireille glared at him. He ignored this. “I – I hurt you. I know you’re playing it off, but I told you I wouldn’t, and – ”

“You’ve hurt me plenty during training,” she grumbled, muffled against his fingers.  

“Trevelyan, _please._ This isn’t the same thing.” Cullen tapped her lips in reproach. “I – I know you’ve been…harmed. By Templars in the past. I don’t – I’d like to actually apologize for it, if you don’t mind.”

“You didn’t want to hurt me.” Mireille pushed his hand off her lips, holding onto his first two fingers so he couldn’t do it again. “You thought I was someone else. It’s _fine,_ Rutherford. We don’t need to – ”

“It wouldn’t have been had I – ” His breath caught in his throat, and he made a quiet strangled noise. _“Maker,_ if I’d had my sword. If you hadn’t had the bloody foresight.” Cullen shut his eyes and when he opened them again they glittered in the lamplight. “I am so sorry.”

And suddenly it was very hard to breathe. She coughed a couple of times, her hand finding its way to press against her stomach, caught up in memory and feeling for a gap that wasn’t there –

“Mireille…”

She flinched back from the hand that touched her shoulder, but only a little. The scar was there in the right place, there was a cool breeze blowing damp against her left cheek, and she shook herself and said, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not a very good liar,” Cullen muttered. He still had one hand on her shoulder, rubbing small circles into the muscle with his thumb.

“I – ” Mireille scowled at him, and took solace in exasperation. “Maker, it’s possible I just don’t want to air out every traumatic incident I’ve ever lived through.”

“Really? You’ve seemed very comfortable airing out mine.” He hadn’t let her go yet, but his grip was loose enough she could pull away if she wanted to.

“Well, if you’d like to air some more out – ”

He leaned forward and said, more quietly, “Stop.”

This put him about three inches from her face, and he wasn’t glaring at her, not like she wanted him to be. Just looking. Just…there, his eyes flickering down and then up, damp and half-lidded and bottomlessly dark under his knitted brows.

He lifted his hand to her face. His thumb traced a cool line around the bruise on her cheekbone, so gentle that it made her skin tingle and her breath run short in an entirely different way. For one second she thought –

But he glanced away, his hand falling back into his lap. “I think – I think we’ve both had enough of reliving old traumas for tonight.”

“It’s nearly dawn.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “You know what I mean.”

Mireille let out a long breath through her nose and rubbed her knee, which was starting to prickle with lack of bloodflow. “You should get some rest.”

Cullen gave her a look that suggested she wasn’t looking much better than he was. She settled her shoulders back in an attempt at dignity and added, “It’ll help the healing stick better.”

He said, “Will you – ” and then shut his mouth immediately and looked away.

“What?”

In a very small voice he said, “Please – please stay.”

She blinked at him, and then glanced out of the open tent flap. Then back. He’d turned away, cheeks red, using his good hand to adjust the bedroll he’d kicked into a heap at the side of the tent.

For just a moment Mireille let herself think about pressing herself right up into the crook of his shoulder and laying down. Holding onto him until one of them fell back asleep, pretending it would all be wiped away with just a touch. It’d worked before. If she couldn’t feel the sharp ache all the way up the muscles of her stomach or hear where the hard notes lay under the soft current of his voice, if she were drunk, if she didn’t see a sword every time she closed her eyes…maybe…

“I can’t,” she said, and her traitor voice cracked on the last syllable. “I – I can’t.”

“I know.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I – it’s not fair of me to…to ask, I – I know. I’m sorry.”  

She helped him lie back, his head turned away toward the tent wall. There was a tremble in his shoulders now, and on impulse she reached out and ran her fingers through his sweaty hair. It made him close his eyes and draw in an unsteady breath.

“I’m sorry,” Mireille whispered, and stood up, and walked out of the tent and into the morning.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sneaking this chapter in right under the three-month mark...  
> if only thedas knew what post traumatic stress disorder was. i am very much assuming that they don't -- and if they do, the circle definitely doesn't acknowledge it. also i'm pretty sure i made up 90% of the shrine of dumat's architecture in this chapter. oh well! 
> 
> hi, i'm not dead, i just packed up and moved and also a bunch of other real life shit happened! don't worry! i'm still updating! hopefully a little faster now that i'm settled! i make no promises about schedule, haha, but this is a project i'm planning to see through, it just might take a little while to get there. thanks for sticking with me through the weird update schedule, yall are great and i'm pretty stoked to finally move on from this chapter and show you what comes next. :3


	26. Chapter 26

A letter written in a heavy hand on high-quality parchment, marred a little by smudged wood-ash and dated the third of Umbralis:

 _Trev. Approach is big. Full of sand. Haven’t found the wardens. Hiding? Hawk says lay low and I agree. If they know you’re in the ~~rejoin~~ ~~rejion?~~ area they might scatter. We’ll keep looking. _  
_Also, Griffon Wing Keep. Venatori are moving into it. We’re bothering their supply lines, slowing them down. Making it look like animals – lots of pointy animals here, hungry ones. Lot of old buildings here too, some Warden fortresses. Might want to send a few of your friends to bother the Venatori some more, but nobody loud. Make it harder to get a foothold. Delay til the snow passes. Not many demons yet._  
_They’re preparing for something big, I think, but can’t see much yet. Will write when I can see it._

_Tabris_

* * *

          

A thick packet of reports from the Shrine of Dumat, delivered by one extremely fast and now extremely tired raven back to Skyhold on the eighth of Umbralis, faced with a summary in Seeker Pentaghast’s smooth hand and spattered with snow and what looks a bit like blood:

 _The mission was unsuccessful. Samson left a resistance force and his assistant, a Tranquil called Maddox, set the building afire to hamper pursuit and destroy whatever he was working on. We canvassed for the general and his party after clearing the base, and found evidence of a small group traveling west very quickly into the swamp, where the trail was lost. The Inquisitor requests we investigate whether the Tranquil might have kin; he is from Kirkwall’s Circle originally. There were a number of tools he appears to have been using in the crafting of red lyrium. Sketches are enclosed, and the tools will return with our party to Skyhold._  
_The Inquisitor also includes notes on the wounded and injured, and suggests we use them when planning parties traveling anywhere infested with red lyrium. She also directs me to inform you that she has received Josephine’s missive and will travel directly from here to the Exalted Plains to settle the civil war and the undead menace._  
_Scout Harding will accompany the Inquisitor to the Plains after meeting Ser Blackwall and the others in Lydes; the rest of us will return to Skyhold from there. Expect us in two weeks, perhaps three._

_Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast_

* * *

          

A letter on fine parchment, sealed with silver and blue wax and impressed with Madame de Fer’s personal crest:

 _Senior Enchanter,_  
_I am pleased to report that Ghislain Circle is at peace. Many of its mages were Loyalist to begin with, and are content to remain as they have always gone on. I have ensured that Knight-Commander Cassien knows our feelings on the Circles and their preservation as bastions of learning and peace._  
_Several of Ghislain’s enchanters expressed interest in joining the Inquisition, as well. They and a retinue of Templars will be on their way by the time you receive this message, and bring with them some rather interesting apothecarial research – including a project rather dear to my own heart that may spark your interest._  
_Do say hello to Marshal Proulx for me, if you should encounter him. He is generally a rather sensible man. Generally._  


_First Enchanter Vivienne_

* * *

          

“What did you _do_ to this?” Harritt said, picking up the dented breastplate, and then he caught Cullen’s raised eyebrow and added, “I mean, what did y’do to this, ser? Because it _looks_ like you took a bloody big hammer to it.”

“Essentially.” Cullen didn’t resist the urge to rub the bridge of his nose in time, and pinched so hard it hurt. “A behemoth. Is it fixable?”

Harritt nodded, already poring over the rest of his armor, spread across the candlelit table. “Mm, if not, it’s replaceable. Good metal, but it’s all scored up here, see? Probably ‘cos a behemoth hit you in it.” He glanced up, as if expecting Cullen to have suddenly sprouted a nasty scar or two on top of the sling around his left arm. “The pauldron’s just dented, that’s an easy fix.  Some scratches, you’ll need a new strap or two…the shield’s a loss, but you knew that. Vambraces might be too. Two, three days, and I’ll get it all back to you, Commander.”

Cullen nodded, his eyes on the gouged and dented metal. “Good. Take what time you need.”

Even after two weeks the ache in his ribs still lingered, and if it’d been just a twinge on the way down to the undercroft, it _burned_ going back up. Cullen had to pause a long moment on one of the landings and press his back against the cold stone wall. It didn’t help, particularly, but it replaced a little of the comforting pressure of a breastplate and pauldrons on his spine. He sighed, and kept climbing.

It was snowing again when he finally made it out to the yard. Not the pretty drifting flakes that had their noble visitors cooing about how picturesque the fortress was – this was snow with _purpose,_ coming down fast out of a blank heavy sky. There was already an inch and a half on the steps. The cold had chased almost everyone out of the yard and into the castle, which meant that as soon as he stalked through the merchants and the nobles and the repair crews and the doors shut behind him it was blissfully _silent._

Cullen stood there for just a second, with his back against the door, breathing in the cold tinny air, and then tromped down the stairs.

The drifts were higher down here in the main yard, but someone had shoveled out a path from the stairs to the tavern and over to the requisition office. The shovel was still sitting there and he eyed it for a moment, fingers flexing in the sling. He huffed a misty breath and turned left, making his way through the trampled snow to the door of the infirmary.

It was quiet in here, too, and warm. The surgeon didn’t look up as he came in. She was testing the fit of a brace around a Templar’s knee. The Templar himself looked up, and then saluted, pulling his knee out of the surgeon’s hands. “Commander, ser.”

“At ease, Remy, I’m here for myself.” Cullen attempted to lift his slinged arm and winced.

The surgeon glanced up at him. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Commander.” Remy’s eyes fell on the sling, and then he turned away with a yelp as the surgeon adjusted the brace particularly hard.

Cullen found himself leaning against the wall again, and had to force himself to stand upright. He tucked both hands behind his back and glanced around the room. It was really only half furnished, the other half stacked with crates and jars and a line of cots waiting to be set up, but of course they’d only moved in here – what had that report said, a week ago? He couldn’t recall now. Behind the surgeon there was another figure in a cot, chest rising and falling slowly, who coughed and rolled over.

The surgeon patted Remy on the shoulder and turned to her other patient, calling into the back room for someone. Remy tested his leg carefully and then hobbled over, giving a sharp salute. “Commander, ser.”

Cullen gestured to his leg. “How’s the knee?”

“The surgeon says it will improve,” Remy said, picking up the offending leg and grimacing. “I was careless, ser, it won’t happen again.”

“It happens to the best of us.”

Remy looked him over and ventured a smile. “I suppose so, ser.” He paused, settling back on his good leg. “Ser? At the shrine…”

Cullen glanced over his shoulder at the surgeon, who was still tending to her patient. An elf in Circle robes had appeared at the cot and they both appeared absorbed. Remy drew a little bit closer, balancing his bad leg beside the good one. He rubbed at his mustache and continued in a lower voice. “Ser, I know why you chose me for the mission. I thought it might be straightforward, I…”

There was a quiver in his tone. He’d picked Remy because the man had been a templar twenty-some years, between Ghislain and the White Spire, and because he’d led a foray in Sahrnia with no problem, and the red-rimmed eyes and the bags under them looked out of place on his generally jovial face. Cullen patted him on the shoulder awkwardly. “You did well, given the circumstances, Templar.”

Remy shifted his foot and glanced away. “I, ah, I meant to send in a requisition, but…”

Cullen’s stomach twisted, and he stepped back, his shoulder touching the wall. Of course. _Of course._ How else did you manage the anxiety, the nightmares, besides a little more lyrium in your daily dose? It’d steady you, ground you, make you fearless. Why wouldn't you ask for more when it was what made you feel all right again? Especially, apparently, after something like that?

How many of those requisitions had he approved for people Meredith _liked,_ regardless of need? 

Suddenly he felt very young again.

Cullen rubbed his hand over his face, and his glove rasped loud against the stubble on his chin. “Send in your requisition. I – if you’re having trouble with it…” The words _you shouldn’t take more lyrium to handle it_ felt stuck, his tongue wouldn’t wrap around them, they might not even be _true,_ and he settled lamely for, “There’s…tea.”

Remy blinked and rubbed his moustache again. “Tea.”

Damn it all, you would think an army commander wouldn’t bloody well _blush_ in embarrassment, but here he was – “Yes.”

Over Remy’s shoulder the surgeon flapped a hand at her assistant, and he stood up and called out, “Ser Templar, let me get your crutch.” Remy turned at the sight and Cullen pushed himself off the wall and stared at the ceiling until he felt like his cheeks might stop burning. _Honestly._

Remy accepted the crutch, and said to Cullen, “Thank you, ser,” with every appearance of meaning it before he limped out the door. The assistant closed it after him and then looked up at Cullen, knotting his fingers together. “Can I help you, Commander?”

Cullen blinked down at him for a moment and then shook himself. “Oh. Yes. I was told I should speak to the surgeon about removing the sling. Broken arm.”

He’d spoken more gruffly than he’d intended to. The assistant blinked in surprise, but nodded and said, “I can take a look. Will you sit, ser?”

He did, and the assistant turned his arm over a few times, as Cullen chewed on the inside of his cheek and tried very hard not to flinch or roll his shoulders or rub his half-grown beard or any of the eighteen different ticks he’d picked up a thousand miles away, and when he finally walked out of the infirmary with a brace tied around his forearm dark had closed in and with it a bitter-cold silence. The snow hadn’t slowed. There’d be a foot by morning, maybe, if it kept coming like this. He drew in a full breath of icy air and closed his eyes, just for a moment, before he strode into the snow.

There would be no mobilizing the army to march down into Orlais in this weather, he thought, as he navigated the stairs. They’d have to hope the weather would stay cold and harsh in the Western Approach, too. That it would be enough to let their scouts and allies slow progress, that the snow and cold would prevent travel for Corypheus’ forces too, that there would be a clear target to fight only once the spring came and the mountains cleared…it wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it was a present-day thought, and at least there was that.

Someone had lit the candles in his tower. There was light glowing through the windows, and as he reached for the handle there was a loud snort. And a voice that sounded very much like a certain –

“Varric, you are not a nursemaid, as I have been telling you for the past two weeks,” he snapped, opening the door.

Varric had pulled a chair up to his desk and was lounging in it. “Now Curly, that’s no way to talk in front of your guests.”

And Knight-Captain Brynn Ashton got up from her chair, with several clanks because she was still wearing half-plate, and rasped out, “Don’t worry, Knight-Captain. I don’t believe anything Tethras says anyway.”

 _Knight-Captain._ “It’s just Commander now, Knight – Ashton. It’s good to see you.” He gripped her extended hand, and she pulled him in to pat him on the back hard enough to knock some of the wind out of him. Ashton was not a small woman. “You brought the mages from Hasmal?”

“Almost all safe and sound, thank the Maker.” Ashton balanced one hand on the pommel of her sword, her other hand moving along with her words. “We had a few adventures, which I’m sure Tethras’ll be happy to relate to you in full dramatic form.”

“Posing as a trade caravan. I’m sure _that_ went over well,” Varric said, propping his chin in one hand.

Ashton grinned over her shoulder at him. “Lucky we had a few crates of smoked fish for rations and Enchanter Wayan is a good liar. I turned them over to Grand Enchanter Fiona and my men are bunking up here in the keep for now. Some you know, some you don’t – ” She paused, a brief frown darkening her face.

Cullen patted her on the shoulder. “It’ll keep, Knight-Captain. I’m glad to see you all arrived safely. We’ll work you and your men into the training schedules and find permanent housing for them, or if they’re willing we may send them off to other corners where their skills will be most useful.”

Varric passed her up a glass of something, and she waved it off and gave Cullen the hand-sign for _It’s fine, too much talking._ He nodded and leaned against the desk, very carefully. Ashton added, _You look like shit._ (Technically she’d signed _are you well,_ he was pretty sure, but given the expression on Ashton’s face he decided to interpret it as the former.)

 _Fine,_ he signed back, _don’t worry about it,_ and Varric said, “I feel like I might be out of the loop here.”

Ashton opened her mouth and winced, and gestured at Cullen, who said, “The Knight-Captain worked with me in Kirkwall for a time, after…everything. A small group of blood mages attempted to ambush her patrol through the Gallows and cut her throat – ” Ashton signed something else, quick and excited, and he continued, “and they were rather surprised when she did not die immediately, because…you…can’t kill an Ostwicker by cutting her throat? Is that what you just said?” She nodded vigorously, grinning, and Cullen suppressed an urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, surely. After too much talk her voice stops working, so we all learned to adapt.”

“Now I feel bad for asking for all your stories, Knight-Captain.”

Ashton waved a hand in dismissal, still smiling. “It happens,” Cullen said, and she nodded. “Things have gotten better if you’ve gotten that many stories out of her.” Ashton brightened and tapped her fist in her palm for a second before she spelled out a word slowly. Cullen frowned. I-N-…what was that letter…U-I-S-I…T? She spelled it again more slowly. Oh. “The Inquisitor?” Ashton nodded. “She won’t be back for two or three weeks, I’m afraid. The peace talks at Halamshiral were relatively successful, but there’s still fighting in eastern Orlais and something about an undead uprising.”

“Another one?” Varric shook his head. Ashton grimaced, and successfully managed to say, “That’s all right, I’ll see her when she gets back,” before her voice cut out again. She added in sign, _Meet tomorrow midday?_

Cullen nodded, found himself making the _confirm_ sign with his fingers in tandem. “Yes, of course. I’d like to see who you’ve brought with you. Come by whenever you have a moment tomorrow, Knight- Ashton.”

Ashton threw him a salute, and gave Varric a rather flourishing bow, which he returned by catching her hand and raising it. “Pleasure to meet you, Lady Templar, and thanks for your stories.” She nodded and strode across the room, and then turned back to Cullen and signed out emphatically, _You, get some rest, you look like shit,_ before pushing open the door and leaving.

“I _like_ her, Curly,” Varric said, sitting back in his chair. “A dashing Knight-Captain with a smile on her face, battle-scarred, robbed of her voice but not her rugged beauty or her sense of humor? She’s a writer’s _dream._ I wonder if she’ll let me write her into Swords and Shields as a subplot.”

“Is there a reason you are still in my office, Varric?” Cullen circled the desk and sat, carefully, in his own chair, his ribs protesting. “Besides your excitement over Knight-Captain Ashton and your insistence on nursemaiding me.” He had to stop himself from signing along with it, which was ridiculous, because it wasn’t as if Ashton couldn’t _hear._ But old habits died hard. They’d all picked it up, once, Rylen and Ashton and himself and Seryn and…he shook his head.

“Well, Sparkler’s too busy complaining about the cold to nag you, and Freckles is off to a nice cozy battlefield without us, so I’ve got special instructions to check in on you.” Varric shifted one of the mounds of paperwork and passed over a steaming mug that’d been hiding behind it on a small tray.

“No, you have _not.”_ He resolutely didn’t take the mug.

“I could have been.” Varric winked. “How’s it going? It’s mulled wine, by the way.”

Cullen leaned forward, lowering his braced arm to the desk carefully, and said, “Just bruises now, thank you, I’m quite all right – ”

“Not what I meant,” Varric said easily, and picked up his own mug, taking a nonchalant sip.

Of course not. Cullen glanced away, taking note of the piles on his desk, the requisitions he’d need to look over and approve, the proposed rotation for soldiers from the army camp to the warmer but smaller barracks they were still clearing out in Skyhold. Cinnamon and anise and cloves wafted up from the mug, fragrant and annoyingly tempting.

“What I _meant,”_ Varric said, lowering his mug, “is that walking into a shit ton of red lyrium tends to mess with your head. And it _definitely_ messed with yours. So when I’m asking you how it’s going, I’m asking you how you’re feeling after smacking your skull on a big red crystal and managing not to go completely insane, for the most part.” He sat back in the chair. “Again. I’m pretty sure Meredith whacked you a good one with that sword.”

“Not in the head,” Cullen grumbled. Varric made a dismissive gesture. For a minute he debated just picking the writer up bodily and tossing him out the door, but it likely would tweak his still-healing arm or crack _another_ rib, and Varric fought dirty. Cullen lifted the mug grudgingly in his good hand and rolled his shoulders back until they strained against the borrowed leather jack. “I’m…I was not feeling like myself, and I do feel better away from that…place. It was. Unpleasant.”

“Yeah, that’s putting it lightly. I would have called it a screaming horror show myself.”

Cullen snorted. “I’m sure. I’ve read your reports.”

Varric sighed. “I hoped that was the last we’d see of it, after _her.”_

“Yes…I didn’t think it’d be so prevalent.” The mug was warm, enough that it was making his palm sweat through his glove. “I…I set a guard on the statue, for a time, but there were so many threats to deal with. It seemed ridiculous to set people there after a few months. Perhaps…perhaps that was how it got out.”

“Could be,” Varric said. “Could be the thaig. Could be she hid some away. I don’t think we can assign blame anywhere in particular for that one, Curly. There’s plenty of it to go around.”

Outside, the snow whispered down, and Cullen took a cautious sip of wine. Mulled wine you could get anywhere, but the licorice bite of it was all Kirkwall. It tasted like old winters.

Varric took a much larger sip and said, quietly, “It did do something to you, though.”

“It seems to do _something_ to anyone near it.”

“You know what I mean, Curly,” he said, still pleasantly, balancing an ankle on his knee like he hadn’t a care. “You were closest to her in Kirkwall, back then. Did it feel the same way?”

Did it? Cullen mulled this over for a bit, with an absent sip of wine, and said eventually, “No, not quite. Meredith, she…she spent more and more time in her office toward the end. Orders were sent or posted. She was…paranoid. Careful. I barely saw _her,_ and I never saw her sword until the end. Didn’t know something was – ” He stopped right in the middle of that thought, and Varric gave him a humorless smile while he worked out the rest of the sentence. “Well, there wasn’t red lyrium growing from the walls or walking about and hitting things. It was not the same.”

“Yeah, I suppose it wouldn’t be.” Varric sighed, brought his mug up, drank again. His face was generally amiable, but there was a suggestion of pinched tiredness around his mouth now as he glanced back up. “I just haven’t heard you sound that nasty for a good long while.”

Cullen sat back, pushing his shoulders into the back of the chair, aware he was doing it and not quite able to stop. “I can't...I'm afraid I don't recall all of it. Just a few pieces."

“Yeah, I thought you might not, otherwise you’d feel a lot worse.”

He raised his left arm, winced, and raised the right to rub at the bridge of his nose and push the oncoming headache back down for the third time that day. “Maker’s breath. Was it…was I…”

“I think _bloody mage_ were the exact words you used,” Varric said helpfully, and Cullen decided it’d be better to close his eyes and concentrate on how hard he could press his thumb into the edge of his eye socket. Unfortunately that didn’t diminish his hearing at all. “Yelling about letting you go. Not being taken. Not letting a mage lay hands on you again.” And she’d _still_ healed him? He’d have left himself behind in the rubble.

Cullen opened one eye and said balefully, “You could have told me this somewhat earlier. Say, _before_ we returned to Skyhold.”

“What, so we could all watch you try to explain that one to the Inquisitor? Better to leave it as the ravings of a man in pain, Curly. You weren’t going to fix that one with some pleasantries.”

His headache wasn’t going away, but the pressure seemed to help, at least. Cullen sighed. “I’d have preferred not to leave it that way at all.”

“Well, try harder not to get hit by behemoths, then.” Varric wasn’t smiling. “Your Templar soldiers weren’t saying anything much different, don’t worry. Maybe less of it.”

 “Why are you telling me this _now,_ Varric?” Cullen asked, and tried to tap his fingers on the desk, but the muscles of his left arm twitched painfully when he did and he had to tuck the arm back closer to his body.

“Because from what we’ve seen? It makes you paranoid. Maybe faster and stronger, maybe you can’t feel pain, but we know it makes you paranoid. Makes you feel like you’ll do anything to cut out the fear, like Meredith did.” Varric gestured at his arm. “Figured I’d – see if you were feeling it. Doesn't seem like it, at least."

Cullen stared at him for a moment, and huffed out something approaching a laugh. “Did the Inquisitor put you up to this? It seems like something she’d do.”

“Nah. Call it my own paranoia.” Varric winked and raised his mug, but there wasn’t any humor in that, either. “Nobody wants another Kirkwall, another Meredith.” There was a piercing sort of quality to his gaze now, as if he was trying to look right through Cullen’s skull. Maybe he’d picked it up from Cassandra.

Cullen lifted his own mug, although he had to let go of his forehead to do it. His skull throbbed gently. “No.” The wine wasn’t helping his head, but it might help the sense of guilt eventually. He took a longer sip this time. “No, never again.”

The fire crackled in the corner. Varric was watching him, over the top of his mug.

The tension pressed inward on his ears until he felt like it’d snap. Cullen sighed and it cut through the quiet like a broken branch. “What are you looking for, Varric? What do you want from me?”

“You know how you can tell what kind of person a man is?” Varric asked, and then took a long sip, probably calculated for precise dramatic effect. “You get him drunk or you hurt him.”

Cullen pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. The smell of anise seemed stuck in his nose, cloying and sharp.

“I think you learned from Kirkwall,” Varric continued, his voice pleasant, razor-edged. “When I came back, you were building houses and feeding people, taking down rogue Templars _and_ mages. But I saw _Knight-Captain_ Cullen in that tent.” The chair scraped across the floor. “I want to know if he’s still here.”

Cullen opened his eyes and said, more sullenly than he’d have liked, “And what would you have me tell you, Varric? That he died the day Meredith -- did, or the day the Circle fell apart? Or would you prefer I learned nothing in four years, and Cassandra hired me on because I excelled at going along with – ” He couldn’t say it, couldn't speak the words. It was one thing to acknowledge it himself, it was another to say it out loud, especially with Varric sitting here looking at him for all the world like they were sitting in the Hanged Man again and he was six years younger, in the midst of the worst mistake he’d ever made. He cleared his throat, shook his head, trying to shrug it off behind the mug. "You of all of us should know that isn't how people work."

For a long moment Varric gazed at him, and then he stood up, brushing off his coat. “You’re right, Curly. Sorry.”

The wine had gone flat and sour in his mouth. Cullen swallowed anyway and set the mug down. It was dimming the headache, for now, at least. “I remember Kirkwall, Varric. I won't repeat my mistakes if I can help it. Or Meredith's.”

“Yeah. It's a tall list for her.” Varric grimaced and finished his mug, swishing the wine in his cheeks before he swallowed. He set the mug down on the edge of the desk and tucked his hands into his pockets. “I've just known the Knight-Captain a lot longer than I have the Commander, you know?"

Cullen glared across the desk at him, halfheartedly. How long had it been since he’d eaten anything? Varric was looking back at him, his mouth quirked in some approximation of a smile. He glanced into the mug, half full now, and wanted to say “Cassandra is watching me, you know” or “I stopped taking lyrium, ” or even just “I don’t want to be that man again but _I can't get away from him.”_ But it all felt stuck in the back of his throat, and he settled for, “I know.”

As Varric turned toward the door, Cullen said, “Varric. Do you ever wonder what might have happened if you’d made a decision differently?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Every night of my life, Curly. Doesn’t make it reality.”

Cullen nodded. He’d known that, too.

“For what it’s worth,” Varric said, “you’re getting there. You asked the question, after all." He looked down for a moment, and then added, "She’ll forgive you eventually.” And before Cullen could work up a proper blush, he winked and opened the door, closing it with a _thunk_ and a wave of cold air that ruffled everything on the desk.

Cullen scraped his hands through his hair and stretched out his legs under the desk, and allowed himself just one soft groan, before he breathed out again and sat up.

He ought to have seen it coming. Ought to have known. Ought to have prepared.

The lyrium kit was in the bottom left drawer of his desk, fully stocked, and twelve years of knowledge whispered how smooth and cool it would feel down his throat, how it would spread steady through his chest and slide like armor over his hunched shoulders and his racing thoughts would settle at last into blue-crystal certainty of purpose. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, pressing his palm against his lips until his teeth ached. (Maker, he needed to shave.)

Lyrium would soothe his pain. It would cut the headache, if not help his healing ribs. It would make him feel safe in his own skin again and drown out the half-remembered red lyrium song that in quiet moments he was terribly, terribly certain he could hear. It would be so _easy,_ so helpful, so much…he wanted to say better, and couldn’t quite bring himself to think it without a twist of guilt in his belly.

Cullen drained the mug of mulled wine, and choked for a second on the dregs of anise and cinnamon at the bottom. Carefully he stood up and stacked a few new duty rosters into a tidier pile. The reports from the Shrine of Dumat went into their own stack, the latest requisitions he flipped through squintingly. The candlelight wavered gently in the draft.

If he kept working he’d find himself incapable of anything tomorrow, and annoyingly, comfortingly, oddly, that voice sounded like Mireille’s in his head.

He fished out the instructions she’d left him – don’t take this while drinking, take this for pain, supplement with that – and selected a teabag that smelled like lemon and chamomile. And gave the lower left drawer a good kick when he walked past it again. It just made his head throb. For a moment he glanced up, met the impassive gaze of an embroidered eye from the tapestry hanging on the stone above his door. Cullen paused. The snow fell, unheeding, past the windows. The knot of anxious muscle between his shoulder blades tightened again.

He rubbed his forehead again, and waited for the kettle to boil.

 

* * *

 

A note in smooth cursive attached to a preliminary report from the Circle at Hasmal:

 _Inquisitor – with the arrival of Hasmal’s mages I thought this report from First Enchanter Alloran would be of interest to you. When Hasmal’s Templars arrive I will ensure there is a complementary report from them. It seems this Circle, at least, has remained whole…or as whole as could be expected under the circumstances._  
_Missives have been sent to all extant Circles in the Free Marches, and to Andoral’s Reach and Jader. We sent word to Kinloch first, and our bird never returned. I’ve already sent my scouts to examine the paths across the mountains in preparation for travel; we will send a party as soon as we are able._  
_You’re needed here, I’m afraid, but we’ll ensure you have input on who goes. Take care in the passes._  


_Leliana_

 

* * *

 

A letter in the Inquisitor’s scratchy hand, dated the nineteenth of Umbralis, and oddly stained:

 _Seems word of the amnesty hadn’t reached the Plains yet. That’s been rectified. So have the undead, and some Venatori. Don’t worry Josephine, I didn’t grab anyone by the ear this time. There’s a Dalish clan passing through here that needed a few favors, so we obliged – one of their hunters is coming back to Skyhold with us as a recruit._  
_As per Vivienne’s last letters, I’ve got three samples of the ingredient requested on their way to Ghislain with a pair of scouts, packed in frost runes. Should be sufficient._  
_Hope to be back in the next two weeks. If not, check the central pass for us._

_Inquisitor Trevelyan_

 

* * *

 

And a small green-glass jar, wax-sealed and wrapped carefully in a scrap of old linen to protect it from jostling against the cratefuls of veridium it arrived in Skyhold with, with a folded note pinned to the cloth:

_Seeker -_

_Give this to Rutherford if he seems unwell. Or more so than usual._  
_Be back soon._

_Mireille_

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy, this is longer than i like to go between chapters.
> 
> but hey, i'm alive! we're still rolling! this is another depressing chapter to hit on the heels of the LAST depressing chapter, but i can pretty much promise you that next chapter is going to have at least ONE sparring scene in it. it's been too long, friends. i must return to my roots: sexually charged sparring scenes and snarky dialogue. thanks for sticking with me so fuckin long yall. thanks for waiting for the next snarky chapter because i felt bad making yall wait so long and didn't want you guys to have to wait even longer for me to write a happier scene. (also i'm trying to keep my chapters under 10k words.) 
> 
> next fic update is going to be for [when the sun comes,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10847124/chapters/24082803) because i'm almost done with it, but i'm really, really shooting for updating faster this year on both fics now that things are a little more settled in real life. watch this space. fingers crossed for VERY SOON.


	27. Chapter 27

Mireille looked up at the red banner hanging over the doorway and said, “Really?”

Fiona sighed through her nose. “They want a Circle. Some of the mages, as well. It is all some of them know.”

The Sword of Mercy fluttered in the cool breeze. Mireille tugged on the edge of the cloth, but it was stuck firmly into the crumbling mortar. “It’s not like we’re using this tower for anything, but… they want a _full_ Circle?”

“A full Circle,” Fiona said dryly. “With Templars and Harrowings and phylacteries, in Skyhold.”

“There are no – ” Mireille scowled, looking up at the flat white sky for a moment in case it would help her gather her thoughts. “There’s no – first of all, Circles are far away from people, mostly, but not _this_ far. The logistics of supplying it alone…”

“The Inquisition has supplies, and could back such an endeavor.” Fiona said it with such snide mockery that Mireille almost laughed. “The Inquisition is, after all, a Chantry organization.”

“The Chantry disagrees.”

“The people do not.”

Mireille folded her arms and said, “I – who do they think would even organize this? Who do they think would lead it? There aren’t even enough Templars _left_ – who is doing the thinking here?”

Fiona sighed. “I have heard _plenty_ of whispers, but all secondhand, of course. And of course they have suggested you as First Enchanter – ” She ignored Mireille’s snort of disbelief and continued, “Or Madame de Fer, when they bother to acknowledge that you have another job to do. A few of the other senior enchanters have been named. Me, on occasion, but most would not ask me to lead a Circle again. Not after – everything. And who better to lead the Templars than the Knight-Captain of the Gallows, or one of his many high-ranking knights?”

Mireille said, rather loudly, “Ex _cuse_ me?” because she couldn’t quite bring herself to say “what the _fuck?”_ to the Grand Enchanter. Old habits.

Fiona just shrugged, tugging her cloak closer around her shoulders. “I have told them it is nonsense, but with the arrival of the Loyalist mages from Hasmal…there is pressure. There are fights among the mages. The Templars have been quiet for now, but perhaps they are having the same discussions about what to do with us.”

Mireille stared at her for a long moment, and up at the banner, and then glanced back at the battlements behind her. A hundred yards away a soldier glanced up and then returned to a slow walk along the wall.

She looked up at the banner again and said, “Help me cut this down.”

The cloth had been pinned with a couple of steel spikes, not hung from a cord like most of the banners Josephine had draped across Skyhold, and after a few minutes of tugging Mireille gave up and borrowed Fiona’s staff to saw through the cloth at the top. The banner dropped with a thump into the fresh snow, leaving a ragged red edge stuck on the stone.

She’d taken down too many of these things.

Mireille knelt down to roll the banner up anyway, and Fiona said, “The mages do not feel useful anymore, Inquisitor. Some of them never did. Some wish to return to what they knew, and some think you will force us to anyway.”

“There are _so many_ problems with a Circle in Skyhold.” Mireille counted on her fingers for a moment and then flicked her hand out to scatter the reasons as she straightened. “We have seventy-odd rebel mages from Redcliffe, we just got twenty Loyalists if I read that report right and we’re getting a few more out of Ghislain, we’ve got Dalish mages visiting with their clan who aren’t bound by Circle convention, we’ve got a fistful of mages who’ve come from the Circles originally and another fistful who’ve never been in a Circle but want to help…Dorian, alone, is a major issue. Solas. Void, so are Vivienne and I.” And they wouldn’t even all _fit_ in a tower. They probably had more than two hundred mages to squeeze into a space like this, and with the Templars too…

“If you wish it, I am sure it will be done,” Fiona said, with acid in her voice.

Mireille stared at her and said, “What makes you think I _want_ it to be done? What the – what on _earth_ makes you think I want a Circle in Skyhold?”

Fiona’s mouth pressed into a fine line for a moment. “Perhaps when you conscripted the mages and then left us alone? Perhaps that you’re working out the logistics right now?”

Mireille laughed, or tried to. It sounded more than a little strained. “The mages are half the reason we fixed our foundations! Without the mages we’d have gotten _nothing_ done on reconstruction, we’d have a quarter the potions we’ve got, the Breach would be open and bearing down on our necks – ”

“And it is not, and they are drifting,” Fiona snapped back. “They need reassurance that they still matter. That they are not just here to be imprisoned.”

Not for the first time today, Mireille ground her teeth and bit down on her temper until it came to heel. It took a long moment. She found herself rubbing the bridge of her nose and shook out her hand instead. “Look,” she said, gesturing at the tower. “We’re preparing to siege a fortress in the spring. We need a battlemage corps. Volunteer only, anyone who doesn’t want to fight Wardens and demons and who knows what can stay in the back as healers and support, but I want however many people we need to call it a corps. Helaine can take charge of it. Will that help?”

Fiona’s face had gone ashen, but she nodded. “That will help, although it won’t solve the problem. You cannot drill a battlemage corps indoors. What of the tower?”

“I feel like you have a suggestion for me,” Mireille said dryly.

The Grand Enchanter gazed up at the tower for a moment, then glanced down at the soggy red cloth rolled up at her feet. “I…cannot pretend to know where you stand. You were a researcher, one of the best of our time, but you are the Inquisitor, now. The Herald of Andraste. Your priorities are no longer your own. How can I suggest to you what I think should be done with the tower?” Her voice was getting much smaller, almost lost in the snowy breeze. “What I think should be done with the mages? They will never be a united front.”

There was guilt, stamped into the furrow of her brow and the lines under her eyes, and when Fiona shook herself it disappeared under something harder. “I do not wish to see tensions rise again, not when they have finally been… as calm as they ever will be, perhaps.”

“You said research,” Mireille said thoughtfully, pushing open the tower door. “We’ve got barely enough room in the apothecary stores as it is. We could move it all over here. How many floors are there?”

“Four above this, I believe.” Fiona followed her into the tower, watching as she pulled out a small notebook and a pencil and started taking notes, and added, “There are rooms below as well, but my understanding is they are rather in pieces.”

“That’s a problem we can surmount,” Mireille muttered, jotting it down. “And some of our rarer ingredients can be grown indoors. The mushrooms, especially.. We could set up a floor as a garden, put in a window, but it might be too cold if it’s facing the wind…” Alchemy lab. She’d been using a corner of the apothecary and, frankly, her own desk, but a _proper_ alchemy lab? That would be ideal. Hadn’t Josephine just mentioned a glassblower? Then she could stop doing desktop experiments.

She looked up, and pointed her pencil at the ceiling fifty feet above, barely visible through the gaps in the stairs. “Astrariums.”

“Excuse me?”

“Astrariums,” Mireille said. “On top. Someone’s bound to find that interesting. I bet Dagna could replicate it. We could teach classes.”

“In...astrariums?”

“No, just in magic.” She sketched her pencil through the air, estimating the room’s size. “We’ve got, what, thirty or forty apprentices, all told? We could stand to keep teaching them officially.”

Fiona said flatly, “How is this different from a Circle?”

“No Templars, for one,” Mireille said, looking up the stairs. Somehow, she’d said it nonchalantly. “None of the mages will live here, for another. They’ve already got their quarters assigned, they’re likely to be comfortable, we shouldn’t bother to move them. And we’ll have more storage space that way.”

“The Templars will protest. So will half the mages.”

“I don’t _give_ a shit,” Mireille grumbled, and her younger self kicked her in the shin for swearing in front of a Grand Enchanter. “Everything I’ve done has led to a protest of some kind, even something as neutral as a bloody apothecary or a place for research. Nobody _likes_ me, Grand Enchanter. I’m either a threat or a nuisance. Sometimes both.”

Fiona did, at least, have the good grace to look a bit embarrassed, but she dropped her eyes and chuckled. “Yes, I understand. Being in power has a way of making one unpopular.”

“I’ve noticed.” Mireille tapped the pencil against her lips for a second, then started writing again. Astrariums, apothecary labs. Study rooms. Harrowing Chambers – no, not something she wanted or needed to think about right now. Libraries, though. A place for the tomes that their well-meaning Chantry librarian had insisted couldn’t be shelved under her system…

When she looked up, Fiona gave her a tired smile and said, “It’s rather amazing that I’ve agonized for _weeks_ over a Circle in Skyhold, and all that it would mean, and all the people it might alienate or draw ire from if I supported or denounced it, and you’ve returned from months out in the world and worked out half the logistics for a neutral option without a care for what anyone might think.”

“I have a _care._ I just don’t – ”

“Give a shit,” Fiona finished, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’ll shout at someone and in two more days you’ll have it all worked out tidily, and it will somehow work, despite all odds.”

“Well, don’t call it solved before I’ve talked to the mages,” Mireille said, tucking her notebook into her pocket. “Did this all start with the arrival from Hasmal?” No, it couldn’t have. Willow had come to her months ago talking about Circles in Skyhold…it felt like years had passed.

“No,” Fiona confirmed. “No, it’s been on everyone’s minds since we arrived. Since we were conscripted, perhaps. But the mages from Hasmal and their Templars have accelerated things, not to mention the Templars from Kirkwall who’ve joined the Inquisition as well. Our Templar force has nearly doubled.”

“Are they causing trouble?” Mireille crossed the room and looked out the door, squinting into the winter light. The banner was still lying in the snow where they’d left it.

“Not yet. I have heard promising things of the Kirkwall Templars under the woman currently leading them, but the rest are…traditional. And the Loyalists have only encouraged them.”

“The Kirkwall Templars aren’t that way?”

Fiona scooped up the other end of the banner, which at least saved Mireille from having to hug the wet cloth to her chest to get it off the ground. “They seem to be…oh, perhaps lenient is the word. Almost personable. I don’t know what they were like under your commander’s guidance, but the woman who leads them now is rather cavalier. Perhaps you would know her from your time in the city.”

“I doubt it,” Mireille said, heaving the wet banner onto her shoulder and ignoring the way her gut was twisting. “I did my best to stay away from the Templars while we were in Kirkwall.” Half the city baying for blood and the other half clamoring for the reopening of the Gallows, vigilantes everywhere and eleven terrified apprentices in tow, and…she shuddered and nearly dropped the banner.

“You would recall her, I think. A large woman who talks mostly with her hands. Her voice is damaged, I believe, and she is near mute, but she has a reputation for genuine fairness.”

Well, that couldn’t be Brynn. Brynn wasn’t mute. And she’d take ‘large’ into deeper consideration if Fiona weren’t barely two inches taller than Mireille was herself.

It probably wasn’t Brynn.

Almost definitely.

“What do you want to do with this?” Fiona asked, bouncing her end of the banner.

Mireille found her free hand clenching, looking for the staff she’d left in her quarters. “What do you think we should do with it?”

Fiona looked down at the rolled cloth and said, “It’s a bit damp, but it would burn.”

“Really?”

“I would burn it all down if I could.” Fiona glared at the banner like it’d personally offended her, but then, it probably had. “Every rotten brick, Inquisitor. It’d be too good a funeral for the place, but some things can’t be helped.” The acid had boiled back up in her voice. She shook her head firmly and looked up at Mireille, expectant.

Mireille hesitated, and hated herself for hesitating, her fingers tightening on the familiar cloth.

More quietly, more bitterly, Fiona said, “The Circle was much kinder to you than it was to me, Inquisitor. Senior Enchanter. You fit into it. I did not.”

“I know.” She couldn’t get her voice to rise any louder than a murmur.

Fiona sighed. “It welcomed you. I suppose that makes it harder.”

Even with all the time in the world, she couldn’t unpick every stitch in every Templar banner in Orlais. Or Ferelden. Or all of Thedas. It couldn’t be worth the effort. There was reclaiming something lost and then there was a futile task. Right?

 _Maker._ Mireille glanced around, at the open tower door, and then back at the banner. “We’ve already cut the top off the damn thing, it’s probably not worth saving. I’ll – can I leave it to you to dispose of? If we’re going to get started on something with this tower, I should talk to Gatsi and see if any of it’s feasible.”

“Certainly.” Fiona took the weight of the banner, tipping it to sit upright. It sagged a bit. “I suppose lighting it on fire and tossing it into the Templar section of the barracks would be a bit much, but  – I am _kidding,_ Inquisitor.”

“I think I liked you better when you weren’t making jokes,” Mireille grumbled.

Fiona gave her a sunny smile. “I’m sure you did. Go on, your Worship, do what you do best. Work out the logistics and by the time you speak with the mages you’ll have so much laid down already they won’t feel like they can disagree.”

“Are you trying to compliment me? I honestly can’t tell.”

“Go on,” Fiona repeated, patting the cloth. “I will take care of things here.”

Mireille narrowed her eyes, but she went, letting herself out into the cold on the far side of the tower. It wasn’t worth worrying over. At least that was what she told herself, tugging her cloak closer around her shoulders and trying to bury herself in the deep brocaded hood for the short walk to the keep. There was so much else to worry about, now that she was past the initial consuming excitement for a real alchemy lab and classrooms and libraries.

All the things she’d _liked_ about the Circle, without all the bones it’d been built on…

“It can’t be that easy,” she muttered as she opened the door into the keep and stomped snow off her boots. The pair of soldiers standing at the window glanced at her over their shoulders and saluted promptly, but not before exchanging a look.

Mireille opened her mouth, and then waved a hand and strode off for the stairs.

* * *

And yet –

She ought to be in Josephine’s office, going over the various requests and letters they’d had in the wake of the Winter Palace, sorting more mail and more priorities. She ought to be _working._ Maker knew there was enough to be done, given the state of her schedule for the past three days. But she’d been hungry, and she’d swung through the tavern and been handed half a bottle of imported mead along with her dinner, and she’d left immediately because –

Mireille swung the staff out again and sighed. The balance was still off _and_ someone was watching her now.

She looked up and Dorian waved. “I’ve been trying to track you down.”

“You and the rest of Skyhold,” she said sourly, whipping the staff through the air again, just to make sure. It was too heavy, that was the problem. Stupid metal staves. “What for?”

“Well, I _had_ some rather technical magic questions for you, but then you ran out of the tavern and I was woefully delayed.” Dorian glanced down at the low fence around the training ring and then, all dignity, strode around to the gate in it.

Mireille leaned the staff against the railing and picked up the bottle of mead. It wasn’t actually making her feel better, but she was certainly feeling _warmer,_ which was important now that the sun was down.

“I know the Templars are a sore spot for you southerners, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move that fast,” Dorian said. He glanced over at the staff. “Switching to metal?”

“Red Templars keep cutting my wooden ones to bits,” Mireille said, and offered him the bottle. He took it and peered at the label for a moment before he drank. “Something about their claws messes up the flow of energy, and I have to spend a week putting it back. I thought I’d try a new tactic.”

“Wooden staves _are_ temperamental. And so dreadfully unfashionable, although I think some of the court are trying to bring them back into vogue.” Dorian stuck the bottle of mead back into the snow and added, “So, I presume that particular Templar…”

“Don’t know who you’re talking about,” Mireille said, picking up the staff again. Too heavy, too dense and inflexible…maybe she could sheath the ends in metal for protection? But the balance would be _odd,_ to say the least –

“Very tall, quite a few scars, shoulders that Sera described as ‘rideable?’”

She made a face, in spite of herself, and said, “Do you have any trouble when you’re fighting Red Templars with metal staves?”

“No – well, not often.” Dorian looked up at the purpling sky for a minute and rubbed his mustache thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I’ve noticed a warping effect on the flow of mana if they hit it, but it’s usually manageable. I’ve adjusted to it, I suppose. But I’ve seen the staves they give you in your southern Circles and I’m not surprised they’re disrupted by that sort of thing, they’re meant to be rather low-powered…You’ve changed the subject again, by the way.”

“Oh, did you notice?” She hefted the staff again. Harritt had wrapped the middle of the haft in linen, which was helping her grip, but it was still awfully cold to the touch.

“Well, don’t worry, I have more awkward questions to pester you with.” Dorian extended his own staff, all green-black metal and pointy edges. “Trade? Questions about stopping hearts, for instance.”

Mireille swapped her staff for his. It wasn’t lighter, but it was about a foot longer and all spikes on the end. “It’s not hard if you know the trick, but it’s tiring, and I don’t like doing it at all. This is what, veridium?”

“Yes, and obsidian.” He tapped her staff against the blade on the end of his, sheathed in carved leather. “An odd combination, but very Tevene. Stylish to the point of decadence and also excellent at magic, scares southerners to little bits…what _is_ the trick?”

She blew out a long misty breath. “It’s…complicated, I think.”

“I should think so. I’ve never seen anyone do that _precisely_. Every so often you hear about one or two particularly tasteless magisters mucking about with blood while it’s still in the body, ripping out still beating hearts, other such nonsense, but it’s always implied to be a rather bloody process.”

“It’s not _blood magic,”_ Mireille snapped.

He raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not suggesting it’s such, Maker, don’t point that very frightening face at me. But you’ve a very different technique for healing. Perhaps you’re just turning it around?”

She frowned, mulling this over, and then bent down and snagged the bottle of mead by its neck.

 _“Now_ do you want to talk about that Templar?” Dorian asked, and she choked into it. “Ah, thank you, you’ve ruined a perfectly good mead for me.”

“No,” she managed to cough out, pointing his own staff at him. “Go get your own mead.”

“What I find interesting,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “is that she seems to be friends with the commander _and_ his second in command. Either she’s very gregarious and they’re quick studies – or they’ve known each other years, perhaps? From Kirkwall?”

Mireille prodded him again, and he knocked the sheathed blade away with the butt of her staff.

“And you know her. Perhaps from Kirkwall as well? I’ve very little to go on here, you understand, so I’ll be guessing _wildly_ until further notice.”

She swung his staff experimentally a couple more times, then handed it back, opening her hand for her own. Dorian didn’t pass it to her. “I will not enable your smacking me in the shins, thank you.”

She huffed. “Fine. Fine! She’s from Ostwick. Are you happy?”

Dorian’s face instantly fell into concern. “Was _she_ – ”

“No,” Mireille said, waving her hand. “No. Brynn was – we were friends. She helped get people out when the Circle fell, after. She – ” She ground her teeth and held out her hand. “We were friends, she saved my life, give me my staff now.”

“Yes, emotional acknowledgment is _very_ difficult for you, I know.” But he handed her staff back, and she swung it again. Compared to Dorian’s staff it was, at least, much closer to balanced for her. Too long, maybe? It felt too inflexible.

She looked up and poked Dorian in the shin with it, for good measure.

“Ow.”

“That’s what you get.” Mireille sighed, switching hands with the staff, as he settled back into the low fighting stance the Tevene mages seemed to prefer. “Develop some emotions to acknowledge so I can bother you about them, would you?”

“Oh, no, we aren’t done acknowledging your emotions, I don’t believe.” Dorian skipped back as she went for his knees again. “That’s not sharpened yet, is it?”

“Not yet. I think it needs another inch off, but I can’t fix the bloody thing myself.”

“You’ve taken up woodworking, why not blacksmithing?” He blocked her next swipe. “So you were friends, then. Saved your life?”

Mireille jabbed him in the ribs, sort of gently, and said, “Yes.”

“And yet somehow you aren’t friends any longer, or you don’t think you are,” he countered, and his staff rang against hers. “Wait, wait. Let me put some kind of blunting on this, or you’ll be mince.”

She glanced up at the vaguely spiky sword-and-eye motif and the big gleaming peridot stone at the end of her own staff, and stuffed the head into the snow with a decisive crunch, while Dorian waved his hand over the spikes on his staff.

After months of wishing for a bath and a chance to put up her feet and the vague comfort of Skyhold, she’d throw it all out to go back on the road again. She wasn’t asked to leave her staff in her quarters on the road. It made the gentry _nervous,_ apparently _._ She wasn’t asked to sit in front of nobles and merchants who were either scared of her or utterly dismissive and try to figure out what they wanted. She just had to make camp and do the job in front of her and then make camp again, maybe shout at a few people or heal someone. Things that were simple. As simple as piles of undead and burning bodies could be, but sometimes she’d prefer it.

Brynn was here in Skyhold, and that knowledge alone was – disquieting. There were so many other things she’d been worried about and now it was just this, Brynn, alive, here, _different,_ she’d caught one glimpse and registered nothing but fluttering hands and _scar_ and she’d just – she’d run.

She’d faced darkspawn magisters and warped Templars, blood mages, undead, Venatori. And she’d run.

Dorian shucked off his coat, laying it carefully over hers on the fence. Mireille yanked her staff out of the snow. She twirled it a few more times, experimentally. More difficult to spin than one of her wooden staves, but more momentum, too. “Come on, then.”

“Oh, no. You at _least_ have to tell me about the heart trick if you’re not going to talk about your inexplicable fear of talking to someone you once called a friend.” Dorian blocked her first attack, a quick sidestep, and she swiped for his ribs with the butt of her staff. He skipped out of the way. “I am not going to be dragged into a sparring match in this weather without compensation.”

“Last time I taught you a trick it was the eavesdropping one and that was a terrible idea.” Mireille snapped the dull blade upward at the inside of his thigh and had to jump back as the spiked end of his staff jabbed for her face, then again, glittering with a barrier. “Besides, I don’t…really know how I do it.”

Dorian lowered his staff. “That is the least comforting statement you’ve ever made.”

She shrugged. “I tried teaching you the trick I use to diagnose injuries, remember? It’s related to that somehow. It doesn’t use my staff as a focus, there’s some…lightning involved, somehow. I’ve never exactly been in a calm situation when I’ve done it and it’s been very hard to repeat, especially since it wipes my mana for hours. Days, last time, but I did…I did it twice then.”

“It sounds rife for experimentation.”

Mireille smacked him in the calf, under his guard, and suppressed a shiver. “No, thank you. I’m not writing a paper on that one.”

“I’m not writing a treatise on bloody time magic, either, but you seem to like my haste spell,” Dorian said, and twirled his staff a few times. Mireille snapped hers around to hit him in the head and the twirling staff caught the head of hers, bounced it away, and she had to skip back and duck under the next strike.

“There’s a bit of a difference, don’t you think? I’m not going to find anyone whose _heart I can stop_ for a point of data.” She hissed it, trying to glance around and keep an eye on his jabbing staff at the same time.

Dorian knocked her on the head with the sheathed blade of his staff, just hard enough that her teeth clacked painfully together. “Quit that.”

“Quit _what?”_ Mireille snapped, and dodged the next hit. “Quit being an ethical researcher? Quit hitting me in the head.” She pulled up a barrier this time, and his next strike glanced off the air three inches from her face and skittered over her shoulder.

“Ah, that’s how we’re going to do this?” Dorian did the same, she felt it crackle through the air. His barriers always felt staticky on her nerves. “No, quit pretending you can’t do what you can do, my friend.”

“I really don’t think – ” He struck a lot harder this time, and she spent a moment skipping back, the sheathed blade of his staff cutting across her barrier a couple more times. “Wait, what was that? That was interesting. Did you just load a dispel into your staff so it’d go off when you hit me?”

“It’s rather useful against Venatori,” Dorian said, twirling his staff a few more times and grinning.

Mireille narrowed her eyes and thought for a second, feeling out the ragged edges of her barrier, and pulled them in tighter to solidify them. Then she struck again. Dorian parried easily, the metal staves ringing against each other, and when he went to jab she just ducked clear out of the way so he missed her barrier entirely and slapped her staff against his cheek. His barrier rippled with sparks.

“Well _done_ ,” he said, jabbing the blunted spikes for her throat, then her chest, then whipping the bladed end up toward her face, and Mireille smacked them each out of the way, scooting in under his guard and jamming her staff against his. Dorian dropped down lower in the stance but he couldn’t draw back far enough to jab properly, not without letting her hit him first, and he scrambled backward for space and slipped down on one knee in the snow.

Mireille advanced on him, striking down for his neck, and Dorian just about got his staff up in time to block her blow, bracing the spikes against the ground. “ _Kaffas_ – this is about the time I usually start throwing fear spells.”

“I appreciate you _not_ doing that.” She rapped him lightly on the head, then lowered her staff and held out a hand. “There’s really only so much practice you can do without hurting someone.”

“Oh, I’m sure we could devise something.” He ruffled a hand through his hair, pushing it back into place, and let her pull him to his feet. “That doesn’t involve just brute force hitting. A third party specialist at barriers to keep combatants safe, perhaps? We could summon some wisps as targets for full spells, but I’m sure Solas would object.”

“I think a lot of people would object to summoning spirits in Skyhold.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “People object to quite literally everything you do, cousin. You might as well do whatever you like anyway.”

“But it’s my job to keep them happy so they won’t raise a fuss when I march an army through Orlais. Have you seen the most recent reports coming out of the Approach? More and more demons, summoned from somewhere?” She glanced down and bent to pick up the mead out of the snow. It was cold and clammy and her already cold fingers ached holding it. “Demon army, perhaps?” she added, holding it out.

Dorian made a face. “No, thank you, I saw what you did to that. And…that _is_ a concern.” He frowned down at the ground for a moment, kicking his boot through a loose bit of snow until the grass showed. “But you’re Andraste’s Herald, which really ought to count for something when your actions are considered.”

She huffed. “Well, tell that to Orlais. They can’t decide whether they’re afraid of me or they just think I’m an upstart pretender.”

“They damn well ought to be afraid of you,” Dorian said, quietly but with feeling, and whacked her on the shoulder with the still-blunted end of his staff. “You speak for Andraste and fight their battles for them! They wouldn’t have a bloody _country_ without you, and they know it.”

Mireille frowned at him and held up a finger, took a drink from the bottle, and then set it back down in the snow. “It’s not just Orlais, it’s _everyone,_ Dorian. They want a Circle here. Have you heard that one?”

“Which you won’t allow,” he said easily.

“No, of course not, it’d be a mess, but – ”

“My friend, if there is _anything_ I’ve learned as a pariah, it’s that you cannot second guess yourself too loudly.” This time she caught the incoming strike on her staff, and Dorian shifted back across the training ground, spinning the metal faster and faster. Lightning was beginning to crackle off the ends. Mireille frowned and pulled a barrier wide around herself, hooking it into the dirt and the stone below so it’d dissipate the lightning. “Or they’ll latch onto it.”

She struck across, staff clashing with the spinning metal, and then snapped her weapon back to strike with the other end, catching Dorian in the thigh. His lightning spell faltered, but he brought the staff around steady to block the next lighter strike, and Mireille advanced, feeling her way through the metal. She could push anything through a wooden staff, just about – but the silverite was frostbite-cold and when she reached in reflex for fire it was sluggish, like forcing honey through a straw, and she’d thought about it too long time to _duck –_ as Dorian spun the staff around the back of his neck and a trail of sparks flew over her head.

Mireille brought the staff up to block as he brought his down, let the blow snap off her staff and the electricity crackle down along her barrier into the earth, gritted her teeth as she pushed cold magic through the metal and frosted over Dorian’s bare shoulder. Her fingers burned, even through her gloves.

“Offsides,” he complained, hopping back out of the way of her staff.

“Wear a bloody jacket.” She swiped again for his legs, and when he started spinning his staff again she switched to targeting his other arm. “That’s really easy to see coming.”

“Makes a damn good lightning spell if I can get one loose,” he said, and hopped well back from her this time, moving a little too fast for anything but a haste spell. Spinning the staff again into a blur. Well, she could probably take the brunt of that lightning on her barrier, but –

She closed the distance anyway, and when he backed up she jabbed the staff forward and frost crept up his boot.

“I did not get up this morning dressed for a sparring match.” Dorian let her advance this time, and pivoted back and away from her strike, lighting crackling down over and through her barrier to spark off the buckles on her boots, and Mireille narrowed her eyes – there was snow all around her and the staff _loved_ snow, burning cold under her palms, and she just – shoved it upward, a blast of frigid air that caught him full in the face.

He stumbled. The last of the lightning spell crackled off harmlessly as the end of his staff hit the ground, and she grabbed a fistful of the cold air and the snow and the frost and froze the thing to the ground, halfway up his arm.

Dorian let go of the staff and shook the frost off himself, his barrier flickering out of existence as he did it. “Not a bad way to do it, cousin. I think they’re impressed.”

Mireille half-turned. They’d drawn a small crowd.

At least three of the apprentices were watching, leaning on the fence and whispering excitedly to each other, and one young dwarf she recognized as one of Dagna’s apprentice runecrafters was staring wide-eyed. By the gilt and embroidery on some of the others she’d have to guess merchants or minor nobles – it was hard to tell, especially when most of them wore masks anyway. One of the Starkhaveners was standing at the back, hands on hips, talking to…Cullen.

Of course. Mages sparring in the courtyard, even in the less-trafficked training yard near the stables. They’d call him, if he didn’t choose to come himself out of some –

She stopped herself. Clicked her teeth together, bit down.

In the back of the crowd she could see Brynn, her long braid flicked over one shoulder, elbowing Cullen in the arm and signing out something with hands that faltered when she glanced up and met Mireille’s gaze just before she ripped it away. The livid red scar on her throat wasn’t quite covered by her scarf.

Mireille swallowed hard, glanced back at Dorian. He shrugged. “Maybe a smidge afraid, but I would call that impressed overall, wouldn’t you?” He looked out over the crowd, and then tugged his staff out of the grip of the frost spell. It shattered. One of the onlookers jumped and covered their mouth with a hand. “Nothing wrong with a bit of healthy fear, anyway. Perhaps they’ll bother you less now, stranger things have certainly happened.”

She took a breath. The crowd was beginning to disperse, as dusk fell fully and a few snowflakes began to drift down – one of the apprentices corralled the others away by the shoulders, glancing behind him at the merchants. Most of the finely-dressed folk were beginning to meander away too. The Starkhavener was still arguing with Cullen. Cullen, out of his armor, cheeks and nose bright red, crossed his arms and said something that made the man stalk off.

Brynn patted him on the shoulder and signed something, and he laughed, his frown softening.

Dorian’s hand on her shoulder startled her. He squeezed it gently and crossed to the fence, retrieving both their cloaks, and handed hers over. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be consumed with worry over how other people see you, cousin.”

“I’m – not,” Mireille said, and loosened her grip on her staff. Her fingers were stiff and ached with the cold. She accepted her cloak back and draped it over her hands, rubbing her fingers together. “I don’t.”

“Oh, not most of the time, I’ll grant you that.” He shrugged back into his coat. “Just in very specific instances.”

“Shut up.”

Dorian held up his hands in the face of her glare.  “Do come bother me if you’d like to try working out that heart-stopping business, would you? I’m both very curious and entirely willing to bribe you with food. Your ambassador has been _very_ busy filling Skyhold’s larders, and while I’m well aware you’ll eat anything, you might actually enjoy a few of Tevinter’s delicacies. They tend to be…delicate. Hello, Lady Brynn, was it, I’ve heard quite a few things about you and most of them were complimentary,” he added, striding up and shaking Brynn’s unresisting hand as she came to a stop a few feet away, “and if you are approached by a blonde elf with a haircut best described as haphazard I would suggest you take her to task for several of the cruder compliments I’ve heard, lovely to meet you, I’ll be out of your way, enjoy your night.”

And he walked away, leaving Mireille standing at the edge of the training ground with Brynn, whose approach she’d missed because Dorian had been talking.

She almost froze his boots to the ground in revenge. Before she could get the spell off Brynn’s hands started to move, then faltered, and she said in a scraping whisper, “Well, he’s a force of personality.”

“That’s a good way to describe Dorian.” Mireille looked up at her oldest friend and opened her mouth, and then closed it, and then opened it again and said, “Hi. I thought you…I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I sent you a letter,” Brynn rasped. Did it hurt her to talk? It _must,_ she was wincing, just a little bit through her smile. “But yeah, I know. It’s good to see you. You’re – ” She paused, frowning, and took a deep breath before she continued. “Did you always have so much grey hair?”

Mireille snorted. “I’m pretty sure it hasn’t changed since I was twenty-five, _thanks_. I – thought you were dead,” she said, and then realized she’d said it.

“They tried.” Brynn shrugged, but her brows tugged together for a moment. “I thought you were dead too.” The words faded. She coughed. “Sorry, I – ” Her hands moved at the same time, and then she dropped them, half turned away.

“I can – ” Mireille put a hand on Brynn’s arm. Why were her eyes burning? Why _now?_ She sucked in a lungful of the icy mountain air. “I can try to – do something.”

Brynn swiped a hand across her body and shook her head. She patted Mireille’s hand and looped their arms together, tugging her toward the gate.

“Wait, let me…I’m _freezing.”_ Mireille leaned her staff against the fence to free up her hands. Brynn laughed at her as she struggled into her cloak, a hoarse giggle that shook her shoulders. “Shut up. I got stuck in an avalanche, I’m allowed to complain about the cold now.”

Brynn did not stop laughing. Mireille scowled up at her, but she was having trouble fighting off a smile. “You thought I was dead and the first thing you do is laugh at me? You’re still the worst.”

Brynn, still snickering, took her by the elbow and tugged her toward the gate. There was a glitter in her eyes, though. She turned and whistled, a quick three notes, and Cullen looked up from the man in scout’s armor he was talking to.

Mireille sighed, and pushed down her twisting gut, which hadn’t stopped twisting since – well – since she’d caught sight of Brynn in the tavern, laughing like they were old friends. Maybe they were. She hadn’t spoken to Cullen for probably a month. Hadn’t ever asked, even before that, if they’d known each other, and –

Cullen trotted over, giving Brynn a questioning look, and she signed something quickly. He frowned for a second, and then said carefully, “Ashton wants me to tell you that you are the worst?”

“Did you really need to have him translate that?” Mireille said, elbowing her in the side. Brynn beamed. “Is there a book of sign I can borrow? You’re going to have to teach me.”

“Some of it’s not in books,” Cullen said, although he was looking at Brynn and very explicitly not at her. “Or, well. It’s based on a booklet, but we’ve adapted some Templar hand signals as – as well. I think…well, we’ll get it to you, Inquisitor, and fill in the blanks from there. You – I take it you know each other.”

“From Ostwick,” Mireille said, and Brynn nodded and signed something emphatic at the same time.

“Of course.” Was he blushing, or just red with the cold? There was a fuzzy edge to him, beyond the aura of exhaustion he always had, and Mireille glanced down before she could look too long. Brynn signed something else, longer, and he tilted his head for a moment and replied in sign, then said aloud, “She…wants you to know that this is a very nice fortress, even if it is in the middle of nowhere. With good beer, apparently.”

“It was luck that we found it, honestly. There was an avalanche…it was something. The beer’s not luck, that’s our ambassador, but the fortress itself was – luck.” Mireille pressed her lips together before she could keep talking _._ She was tired and tipsy and maybe that was the reason this felt surreal, like Brynn would vanish at any moment.

“She thought it might have been another Trevelyan who’d been named Herald,” he said, watching Brynn’s hands. His own hands kept moving, not quite forming crisp shapes but following along with his voice. “There are others? Ah. One of your siblings. She heard about the avalanche in Kirkwall.” He added something with his hands and Brynn snorted and replied, and then he seemed to realize he’d lost the thread of the spoken conversation and blinked. “Ah…yes. Rumors from Starkhaven. Then I contacted her to escort the Loyalist mages out of Hasmal. Right.”

Oh. He was _drunk._ Mireille stifled a laugh, and Brynn rolled her eyes, grinning, and signed out something else. Her face shifted, whether from pain or sadness Mireille couldn’t tell, and she waited as they carried out an entire conversation in hand gestures and facial expressions that she couldn’t follow.

She hadn’t seen Cullen drunk since – no. _That_ thought needed to stay buried.

Brynn huffed, frowning, and signed something else. Cullen said more quietly, “Inquisitor, Ashton wants to know…where did you get the scar on your cheek?”

“The – ” Mireille reached up and touched her jaw. “Oh. It was…it was on the way from Kirkwall, after we’d landed in Ferelden to come to the Conclave. We were traveling south and we got hit by bandits and a few apostates. A…a few knights stepped in to save us, two retired Templars and a few Orlesian chevaliers going to Redcliffe to fight the rebel occupation, I think. Couldn’t heal it with them around.” She rubbed along the scar for a second. “It was someone’s knife, I think. Can I ask about the – ” Mireille pointed at her own throat.

Brynn nodded, then again to Cullen. “A group of…rebels,” he said, leaning back against the gate. “Mages who broke away from the Gallows. Some maleficars. Ashton and a few others were patrolling near the Gallows…they were lurking by the docks. One of them tried cut her throat, but botched it.”

Mireille had stopped breathing. She had to force herself to start again, the cold air a knife in her lungs. “Well, fuck.”

Brynn laughed, a hoarse whistling sound, and Cullen patted her on the shoulder. “That was…about how the rest of the Templars reacted, yes. We had a friendly mage associated with the guard, who was able to stop some of the bleeding, but the – something was damaged. Many of us learned sign after that.”

Mireille found her fingers knitting together. She’d left the new staff leaning against the fence and it meant she had nothing to fidget with, nothing to wrap her hands around but each other.

Brynn signed something else to Cullen and Mireille managed to say, “Well, give me a few days and I’ll pick up enough to get by, and we’ll – we’ll work on it. Are you – staying around?”

Brynn nodded, firmly. Cullen said, “Yes, absolutely. Once we – Leliana intends to have her teach sign language to others in the keep, we’ve already started that with the other lieutenants and sergeants, and until then she’ll be working on some of the outstanding restoration efforts.” Brynn lifted an arm and flexed, patting her bicep. He snorted. “Then – well. We’ll see.” She added something in sign, her frown turning into concern and he continued, “She is very much here to stay.”

“That’s good,” Mireille said, breathing out. “That’s – good. I’m glad.” She _was_ glad, wasn’t she? Something was swelling in her chest, it could be gladness. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“I’m glad you’re not dead too,” Brynn said, and winced. Cullen held out his hand, moved to pat her on the shoulder, and she waved him off in annoyance. “It’s – it’s good to see you again, Miri.”

Mireille gripped her by the elbow, pressing their forearms together. “It’s good to see you too, Brynn.” _I wasn’t there for you when you were for me, I wasn’t there, I wasn’t there._ “I – are you sure you don’t want something?”

She shook her head so hard her braid wobbled and Cullen said, “She takes a tonic for the pain. We all – I was convinced to take the night off, but she’s been talking quite a lot more than usual the past few weeks.” Brynn’s hands hadn’t moved, she’d folded her arms and let him speak, but she did interject with a quick set of motions like miming a mortar and pestle. “The apothecary’s mixed up a few things for her, but if you’d like to take a look later you’re welcome. She’s – she was going to turn in, but – ”

Mireille squinted at the movement of her hands and took a wild guess. “Josephine – uh, my ambassador. She’s got my schedule full to bursting but I’ll make time. Maybe tomorrow? Where are you staying? It’s okay, Rutherford will tell me, don’t worry about it, we can find time and a place. I’ll – I’ll send a messenger or a raven or something. If you want to get a message to me and you can’t find me you can use the rookery too, it usually gets me out of meetings. Or, uh, if you see a sheepdog wandering around you can usually tie it to her and it’ll get to me at some point during the day.”

“Are we using Candor as a messaging system now?” Cullen asked, looking down at her for the first time.

“She barely leaves me alone, I think she missed me. But Sera’s learned how to send me messages on her collar, she just bribes her into sitting still and tells her to go find me. Druffalo jerky usually works, I think –” Mireille ran out of breath about then, and had to pause at last.

Brynn gave her a smile and held up her hands in surrender. “I’ll look for a dog.” She winced, and signed something to Cullen, then turned back to Mireille, “I’d better go. See you?”

“Yeah. Yes. I’ll get a message to you, I’ll see you soon.”

She gripped Mireille’s forearm in farewell and then turned and hopped over the fence. Thirty feet away she turned back to wave, and then she was gone into the shadows of Skyhold’s courtyard.

Mireille sighed.

Cullen was still standing beside her. He ran a hand over his hair, brushing off a few snowflakes. Despite the cold he didn’t seem uncomfortable, even unarmored, his arms crossed over the front of his padded jack.

She glanced up at him and then turned around and walked over to the far side of the ring to retrieve her staff. It was _freezing._ Even through her gloves the metal was so cold it bit, and she tossed it from hand to hand, gritting her teeth. The mead was still there too, and she picked up the bottle and considered it for a moment before sliding it into one of her cloak’s pockets.

As she walked back toward the gate Cullen said, “I didn’t know you two were…friends.”

Mireille shrugged. “I didn’t know _you_ two were friends.”

“Ashton never mentioned it until – ” He stopped, huffing out a sigh into the air that the breeze drew out into a long trail of mist. “Well, I suppose I should have guessed as much.”

“I should have too,” she said, tucking the staff into the crook of her arm so she could rub her hands together. “Who else would she have joined up with in Kirkwall? Of course you’ve met each other.”

They stood there for a long moment, both looking out at the snow-spotted dark. Somewhere out there in the shadows she could hear the merchants chatting, packing up their stalls for the night. A horse whickered in the stables, and was shushed.

Mireille shook herself. It was more of a shiver, really.

“You didn’t see each other in Kirkwall?” Cullen asked quietly.

“You were there, Commander.” She didn’t have to dredge up a lot of power for a spell to warm herself, but she did anyway, feeding it through the reluctant staff until she could feel her fingers again. He could probably feel it. His eyes flickered down across her hands. “It wasn’t a very welcome place for a pack of mages, especially when half of them were children and the other half were barely Harrowed. We decided it’d be better to lay low. Between the Templars and their supporters and the ones who broke away to hunt mages…and the rebel mages, too, well. Most of us had some skill at alchemy and apothecary. It was easier to bide our time and earn enough to get out of the Marches.”

“You could have joined the guard,” he said, “or… ”

“Believe me,” Mireille said dryly. “I’ve thought about the options we had. None of them were good.” She remembered the hunted feeling, jumping at every flash of silver armor and every flickering red banner. Washing the stitches. The first time she’d found a mirror and gotten to _see_ the job Enchanter Allende had done on her back, the ugly reddish-purple line of – her stomach twisted and she wavered, planting her staff against the ground to steady herself. “I knew Brynn was alive for a while. Then I…lost track. It wasn’t exactly an easy place to navigate, and then we left.”

Cullen nodded. “And came to the Conclave.”

And they’d all died, every one but her. Mireille flexed her left hand against the Anchor hidden under her glove. It throbbed gently in response.

Ah, Maker. She couldn’t – something swelled up in her chest, threatening to burst and tensing all her muscles around it, and she ground her teeth and choked it back down. It was all too _much._ She couldn’t – she needed to break through this, hit something until it hurt, but she’d just _tried_ that and now she was just upset _and_ her muscles were screaming, and –

She closed her eyes and said, “I should go, I think.”

“Of course,” Cullen said, and she heard his feet shift. “I – it’s late.”

Mireille opened her eyes and glanced up at him, in spite of herself. “You’re not going to take the opportunity to tell me off for sparring with magic in the courtyard? I’m…I thought you would.”

He blinked down at her for a moment, and said, “I – no. I had no intention to. You were careful, there was no damage to anything or anyone. I’m sure Josephine will have something to say about alarming the nobility, but I – they’ve been obnoxious enough lingering over the soldiers, and Cassandra’s had to scare half of them away so she can have some peace, I – I have very little interest in acquiescing to them about ‘handling those wild apostates in the courtyard.’ Everyone in Skyhold knows you are a mage. It isn’t a _secret,_ or – or a shame – and to demand that I step in as if I were – _”_ He’d started talking with his hands again, and threw them up in a huff. “Well. It’s. It’s been a trying winter for us all so far, and I…suppose it won’t get better any time soon.”

“Oh,” Mireille said, in the face of this sudden flood of words.

Cullen looked down at her and blushed. “I’m sorry. I – Ashton drinks like a _fish.”_ He said it with such inebriated conviction that she laughed, and it made him smile. “I hope _some_ of that was coherent, at least.”

“It was, don’t worry.”

“Good. I – ” He scrubbed a hand over his face again. “I should…go as well, Maker.”

She could ask him to stay. He was drunk, she was tipsy and she _could_ be drunk, and he was…distracting like this. Endearing. The lack of armor and the alcohol had stripped the Commander and the Templar off him and left him softer around the edges than usual and it…was…best not to think about _stripping._

Pragmatically speaking, her legs might not carry her up the stairs to her quarters if she stood here much longer, let alone if she did anything else with them.

Cullen moved, and she blinked herself awake, and he paused with his hand out. And brushed some snow off his sleeve, instead. “I’ll – I think I have that book of sign language somewhere in my things. I’ll get it to your desk tomorrow, if that’s all right.”

“Thank you,” Mireille said. “I – yes. That’d be helpful, then you don’t have to translate every conversation we have.” She paused, and before she could stop herself she continued, “I’m glad she wasn’t alone. In Kirkwall.”

He nodded. Somehow unsurprised. “Ashton’s…she’s a good person. A good friend to have.”

Suddenly her eyes were burning again, and Mireille crossed her arms over her belly for a moment. “Yes, she is.”

Cullen looked down at her – there was something on the tip of his tongue, there had been for the last ten minutes, and she could see him bite it back and pull himself together. “I – won’t keep you, Inquisitor. Good night. I – sleep well,” he added, and he didn’t reach out for her, but he walked past close enough to flutter her cloak before he opened the gate and let himself out into the courtyard.

Mireille drew in a hitching breath only when she saw him cross the pool of light near the entrance to Skyhold, far enough away that he couldn’t hear.

* * *

 In the middle of writing a proposal for a battlemage corps she fell asleep, and dreamed of raw red scars and armored figures lying glass-eyed on wet carpet, diagrams of apothecary equipment and glyphs in ink and chalk, the soft futile glow of healing magic over wounds long since healed.  

Mireille woke up with half her work stuck to her face before sunrise and wiped it off, the old tears and the ink smudges and the sweat. She recopied the smeared page carefully and picked herself up out of her desk chair. Washed her face in the basin.

She stripped down to her shift and dropped into bed with a sigh, and watched the light creep in through the cracks in her curtains until morning came.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPARRING SCENES. god i missed writing sparring scenes, i should write more of them. maybe next chapter. 
> 
> i did successfully keep this one under ten thousand words, too...by a little bit. i hope it makes up for not updating in four months! thanks for reading, yall. i appreciate all of you for sticking around.


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